


Providence

by lafayetteguerriere



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, DC Cinematic Universe, DCU (Comics)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Batfamily (DCU) Feels, Brother Feels, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Study, Dark, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Epic, F/F, F/M, Family Drama, Family Feels, Friendship, Gen, Graphic Description, Growing Up, Idiots in Love, Internal Conflict, M/M, Multi, Mystery, No Underage Sex, Original Character(s), Personal Growth, Psychological Trauma, Redemption, Sexual Content, Slow Burn, World Travel, Young Love, long fanfic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-12
Updated: 2021-03-14
Packaged: 2021-03-17 03:48:14
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 22
Words: 218,245
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28718337
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lafayetteguerriere/pseuds/lafayetteguerriere
Summary: She ran away to that strange, unpredictable world with its dark, gritty cities where people put their faith and protection in a man who dresses as a bat. She spent her days in a continuous search for distractions and anchors to stop herself from falling into the abyss of her own terrors, clutching on fleeting moments capable of colouring her new monochrome life. Then, she met the boy with green eyes and she learned exactly how Alice of Wonderland must have felt like when she fell through that rabbit hole.
Relationships: Batfamily Members & Bruce Wayne, Bruce Wayne & Damian Wayne, Damian Wayne & Colin Wilkes, Damian Wayne/Original Female Character(s), Dick Grayson & Damian Wayne, Dick Grayson/Koriand'r, Goliath & Damian Wayne, Tim Drake & Dick Grayson & Jason Todd & Damian Wayne
Comments: 32
Kudos: 64





	1. The girl, her paladin and Gotham

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, everyone. I hope you will all enjoy this piece of work, as I am having quite a lot of fun with it. Disclaimer! I do not own the Batman fandom (this is purely for entertainment and to exercise my writing skills) The OC and her world are of my creation, and I hope one day to write my own original story. This particular OC has been in my mind for a long time, so that is why I would like to take my time to flesh her out. There will be Easter eggs from other fandoms. 
> 
> As you'll notice, my chapters are long, and they may even drag at times, because I like delving in detail in how characters perceive one another, their psychological state, the world around them and what they feel. I do hope to keep Damian and other members from the fandom as within character as possible, and keep an eye out for notes (end of chapters usually) as I will explain where I draw my inspiration for his characterisation. 
> 
> Disclaimer: I do not own Batman, or anything related to DC Comics. Fay and other OC are of my own creation, but this work is purely for entertainment. 
> 
> Enjoy! And I welcome your comments :)

_‘Running away was easy; not knowing what to do next was the hard part.’_

_Glenda Millard_

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.

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_“Run---you need to run!’’_

_“The barriers around the capital are failing—‘’_

_“Mother—what is going!?’’_

_"T-Titoh...?''_

_“Maysoon is--- falling.’’_

_“---we are all going to die.’’_

_“HELP ME---!’’_

Waking up from a night terror was almost as unpleasant as the vivid images and sensations that her mind would conjure while she was asleep. Sometimes, she’d already be up on her feet, a rush of adrenaline moving her body as if it was a marionette even before her brain had a chance to process the passage from abstract to reality. There would always be a moment of relief as somewhere, deep in her consciousness, she’d realize that had finally released herself from the tight grip of nightmares. It would always be a brief respite. The journey from dreams to waking life often felt like speeding down a steep mountain and her consciousness would not always succeed in delineating what is real and what isn’t before reaching the finish line; her terrors accompanying clandestinely onto the other side.

Then her eyes would open, but her brain would still be catching up with the rest of her body. Her heart would feel as if it is trying to jump its way through her ribcage and muscles and skin. Her body’s flight-or-flight reflex was switched on, and it was in overdrive.

Sometimes she’d find herself vomiting whatever food was left in her stomach. Other days, she’d scream and stumble around confused, body ducking and dodging the monsters that had followed her from the dreamland into the shadows of her shelter. There was hardly ever a time when she didn’t wake up crying.

Trying to ground herself and overcome the state of terror she felt was an arduous process. She had an arsenal of coping mechanisms, but finding which approach was most effective was generally a hit and miss. Reminding herself that the horrifying images of her dreams belong to the past would be far more effective had she come fully terms with what has taken place. As such, she hasn’t, not even fourteen months later. 

The flux pulsed and coiled underneath her flesh, causing her marks to throb painfully and she instinctively touched the silver bracelets around her wrists—they felt warm. The runes inscribed on the inside, usually invisible, had reappeared like letters being inked on paper and they glimmered. In a twisted way, she’d always be able to tell just how volatile she is by the amount of pain caused of the restraints. 

When younger, Fay had often been told that positive memories can ground a person when they feel their future is dark and uncertain. For her, however, reminiscing often triggered an unbearable grief that made her almost wish she was back asleep, fighting the night terrors. Well, not fighting, perhaps. She wasn’t much of a fighter those days.

She had other tactics to rely on. Counting backwards, breathing exercises, chanting meditative mantras ( _Its’ a dream, I am alive, it’s just a dream)_. Pulling up random pieces of information in her mind; the chemical table, the way some orchids in Maysoon bloom only under the moonlight, last book she read. Anything and everything but tainted memories and people she missed and parts of her old life she’ll never experience again.

A soft whine reached her ears, making her look up at the creature standing in front of her, within reach yet not close enough to make her feel crowded. He was not only a live, psychical chain to reality, but he was one of the few sources of comfort she had left in that world ( _worlds_ ).

A pair of pale leaden-blue eyes stared at her unblinkingly, concern as clear as if it had been a human staring at her instead. More wolf than dog in appearance, her paladin towered over her when she was seated as she was and he was as tall as herself, with his head slightly higher than hers. Even not in his battle form, Bag was an imposing-looking creature; from the sleek dark fur - so dark that sometimes he looked more like a cut-out, an extension of shadows, than a three-dimensional being – to the robust shape, large jaws and distinctly intelligent look in his eyes. To anyone whom was not familiar with how exceptionally intelligent paladins could be, they might even think there was a human in disguise beneath the fur.

She raised her hands to him, giving him silent approval to approach. Warm, soft body pressed against her, the vibrations of his satisfied purrs transferring onto her body as she wrapped her arms as much as she could around him. With his head, a heavy comfortable weight above hers, she pressed her wet cheeks against his chest. She felt concern and affection and wariness.

It had been a selfish act bringing him with her, but it would have been unforgivable to abandon her paladin. Only scum did so and as Fay often thought of herself with derision and pity, parting with Bag was inconceivable. It was the greatest offense she could cause him, the only way she’d hurt more than she already did.

The invisible chains around her torso loosened gradually, the fog plaguing her mind dissipated and the adrenaline trickled away as Bag purposefully used his weight to overpower her, in a playful way. She smiled, as alien as it felt having those muscles engaged as he started sniffing her ear, knowing it’ll tickle her and help her emotional state. He was easily twice her weight, but he was always careful in how he handled her. He groaned, head lolling when she reached to scratch his ears, in the angle she knew it made him turn to putty. For a creature that was nowhere close a dog, or a pet that for that matter, he certainly was as eager to accept affection as one. From her, mostly, one of the few privileges she had left. 

A meow, followed by a small, soft paw pressing into her scalp. Clucking-like chatter came from the end of her ‘bed’, as a small but long furry animal crawled up her leg. A small wiry body toppled itself against her side, a small wagging tail slapping her wrist rhythmically. 

Okay. Time to get up then.

Bag whined, loudly, not unlike a child throwing a tantrum as she extricated herself from furry bodies to stand up and stretch. It was still quite early at dawn and the room was illuminated by soft rays that came through the circular window next to her fort. She pushed up the rusting latch and carefully pulled it inwards, revealing the world outside. In front of her, giants of stone and steel and wood and glass towered over the building she had sought shelter in. The busy boulevard below stretched to the left and the right, before ramifying into a maze of streets flanked by similar structures.

Leaning slightly forward, she glanced towards her left, where she could watch daylight break over the river and bridges connecting her side of town with the other. The sun was atop a golden canopy, casting shimmering rays over Gotham River, making it look as if it was made of precious black liquids, as opposed to just the filthy waters she had grown familiar with.

A soft breeze tickled her cheeks and made her overgrown fringe fall in her eyes, forcing her to push it back to the side. Although the dry air and clear skies indicated it was going to be a warm day, summer still did not compare with the ones she had grown up with.

Glancing below at the streets, she watched as people had already started going about their days, men and women in business attires rushing down the streets with beverages in their hands and their eyes glued to their communication devices, generally unseeing of the world around them. It was a shame; while that city could never compare in beauty to her homeland, they missed moments like that: when the world was just the slightest more peaceful than it usually was, when the tall buildings looked rather fascinating with the golds and oranges and violets reflecting and bouncing off of them.

She took a deep breath in. After four weeks of being in that place, she still struggled with its scents and noises. Maysoon outsized that city easily and visiting could be an incredibly overwhelming experience for those whom are not familiar with it and even as a native resident, Fay sometimes found herself mesmerised by it. That city, in that world, was also overwhelming at times but for different reasons. Her homeland was bright and warm, a hypnotising kaleidoscope of colours and while noisy, one could always find spots that offered sanctuary for the senses. Architecture, as tall and complex and grandiose just like the ones she saw out of that window, were generally not designed to separate people from nature, but rather remind them of the sacred connection that tied all living creatures together. Gotham may have had its parks and reservoirs, but they felt almost inconsequential when comparing the natural wilderness that people of Maysoon welcomed.

Gotham was not boring, but it did feel—cold. Clinical. Dark. It was a home to millions of people, yet it did not feel welcoming most times. Walking down the streets, with the large buildings looming ominously, she did not feel wonder or safe as she did (used to) in Maysoon; it felt oppressing. It felt like the darkest parts of the jungle, except this one was made of concrete and steel and glass, where wild beasts watch warily from the shadows and ancient trees humbled a person when they realized how much their bark and roots must have witnessed.

Dangerous. It felt dangerous. Most nights were characterized by sirens and vehicles whizzing down the streets, sharp pops of sound that echoed (sometimes too close) as weapons discharged and explosions in the distance that made the old windows of the attic rattle and dust to scatter from the brick walls. 

They were fire-sure triggers for panic attacks and with great difficulty she’d find distractions strong enough to keep her anxieties at bay. Sometimes when the sounds were too close, she wouldn’t sleep; she’d stay awake, crouched by the larger window or the trap door, fully dressed and packed up, ready to run at the slightest chance of the building being affected by the chaos of that city. Bag would keep guard, of course, and his keen senses would let them know whether it was best to move or stay put.

A few times they almost did run away. It wasn’t because any of the shots or explosions affected their building, but because she could not stand being constantly reminded of the fear of _that_ night.

Then, she’d remember that she had nowhere to go. She hadn’t had a way to check how dangerous the city she was in was and she didn’t know whether any other cities were that much different. They couldn’t be if they all required so many protectors. Gotham, for all its faults, has also been the place where they found a stable shelter (ironically); the entire journey from her homeland to that world had been characterised by broken deals, unexpected and foreign dangers and it had been a nice break.

She had regretted it, several times, having run away – what was in her mind, thinking she could survive there when she couldn’t even keep up with her own world? They had no choice but to make peace with the decision, though. There was no way to return she came through for the time being and although she had a failsafe, it held no guarantees.

Her failsafe was thousands of miles and almost a year away.

_A year to go._ It might have as well been a sentence. One that she imposed on herself – _on both_ – by deciding to come there barely prepared. She had been gullible and had acted more on desperation than logic. She had convinced herself into believing that if she left her homeland, she’d somehow feel less humiliated, less like a failure, less of the emotional pain that ached her psychically too. She had seen a chance to leave her homeland and took it, later justifying herself that it made no difference if she was gone or not. She had run away because she could not go back to a place that no longer felt like a sanctuary but a tomb full of mocking, painful reminders. She would rather cowardly shed her old identity and even as she regretted running away, living in that strange, foreign world with no home, no resources, no safety, still felt easier than the old life.

“Meowwwww…..’’

Fay gently closed the window and re-latched it before glancing at the feline brushing against her legs. The grey cat looked up at her with a look of indignation for she did not understand why there was no feeding happening if Fay was already awake. What could possibly be more important?

“Alright.’’ Fay smiled slightly although it wasn’t heartfelt. “Food time it is.’’

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The attic was deep but not particularly tall as she only had to climb on an old stool to be able to reach the highest point of the vaulted ceiling and wooden beams. She could often hear voices echoing through the walls, and vibrations beneath her feet as inhabitants of lower floors started their days. The building, made of brick primarily, had three floors. On the ground floor, there was a soup kitchen, on the second there were offices which seemed to deal with ‘employment’ and ‘free, impartial advice’ for anyone interested. The third floor served primarily as a dance studio, with a small storage room that the renters from the other two floors also used and a couple of dingy showers adjacent to a small bathroom.

Having slept in five different places since arriving in Gotham, very much lost and intimidated by how loud and dark and dangerous that city turned out to be, Fay and Bag were feeling adrift when they came across the soup kitchen. It was the beginning of July, but rather than scorching heat and the spectacular scents of the jungle, they’d found gritty streets, some worse than others, gloomy people and a weather that made her wonder if that side of the world experienced summer at all. It had been raining almost consistently, and what was left of the items she brought were damp and they were tired, and they were hungry, and Fay cursed herself for being so reckless.

The soup kitchen had a rather long line outside, of men and women dressed in old, dirty clothes, with hungry looks and haunted eyes. She joined the line while Bag waited aside with her bag, watching. People there were so peculiar about animals there just as they were about keeping themselves separate from nature.

When she went in, she saw a pair of spiralling uneven stairs leading to the upper floors right in front of the entrance. There was a board with all kinds of flyers on the wall to her right, and to her left there were two doors. One led to the bathrooms and another to a large canteen area. It was full when she walked in, and she’d counted five tables on each side as she walked unsurely past them.

All those people were homeless. She was too, yes, but they had even less than she did, so suddenly felt guilty standing there. She wouldn’t be there asking for free food if she had been braver, stronger, more like _them_ ; she doubted any of those people had much of a choice.

There was another queue forming towards the left of the room where a long table ran almost across the entire length of the room, separating the canteen from the room at the back. On that wall, there was a door next to a square opening where she saw food containers being passed back and forth. The kitchen must’ve been behind that wall, explaining the scent of food growing stronger as she stepped closer.

Down the length of the table she saw paper and plastic cutlery, napkins and plastic bowls or plates. There were pans and pots and large plates with all kinds of foods. She still didn’t have much of an appetite although she hadn’t eaten much that day, but she thought it’d look weird if she suddenly left. Plus, Bag was likely hungry. He required more sustenance than she did (because she did not matter as much).

There were a few people behind that table helping in serving food and the paper stickers on their clothes only said ‘volunteer’. She had received some mildly surprised looks but there was more pity than alarm in their looks. Five days into Gotham she’d figured the poorer outnumbered other classes, but she hadn’t thought the volunteers would look upon a homeless child with such---resignation. As if it was something they saw all the time (they probably did).

In Maysoon nobody starved (well, not anymore, not after the revolution).

She could tell they were being extra nice because she was a child, asking her if she wanted a bit more meat and if she wanted an extra cupcake. Fay tried to refuse but they filled her plate with the additional food all the same. Embarrassed, she mumbled a thank you then arrived at the end, where a tall, blonde woman was standing gazing over the canteen with the countenance of a guard. She wasn’t one, though, judging by the dirty apron tied around her midriff but she did look the type of woman who could not be intimidated easily, the hardened look in her eyes speaking volume about having faced her own fair share of hardships.

She was rather pretty, even with the scar running from near her nose all the way to her ear almost. Those brown eyes locked into her as soon as Fay stepped close to the large pot, she was standing beside which seemed to contain a chicken broth of some sort. The woman’s eyes narrowed at her, but it was not an unkind look. “I, um. I have e—enough, th-thank you.’’ Fay stammered although the woman hadn’t said anything and although she knew it wasn’t a custom there, she couldn’t help but bow her head slightly towards the woman. There was something about her that demanded respect the same way some of her tutors and trainers did. Fay didn’t wait to see the woman’s reaction because she quickly slipped back the way she came through, her small body allowing her a quick exit between the throng of bodies that were still queueing at the entrance.

Bag was waiting her a few feet down the street, pacing rather agitatedly around a trash can, forcing a few trespassers change their mind about throwing their litter inside and giving him a wide berth. As soon as he saw her, his eyes lit up and he settled back on his hind legs. The duffel bag she left at his feet had been kept safe as usual, although the grey material had darkened as it absorbed the water from the drizzling rain. She tried not to think about what she looked like, in her oversized raincoat – also stolen-, dirty trousers and battered canvas shoes. She probably smelt too, even if Bag was too nice to let her know.

She gave most of the food to Bag and kept an apple and a cupcake for herself. That night they slept in the park, underneath a tree, with a blanket over their heads and staring at the bat symbol illuminating the dark skies, contemplating how Maysoon used lights to signify sanctuary for all those who desired it. How those lights were turned off _that_ night, and nobody dared to put them back on for months after.

They went back to the soup kitchen for several days, always at lunch time, before spending the rest of the daylight keeping close to the

It was on the fourth day that the blond woman approached them outside, where Fay had pulled Bag aside to share her food with him. She told Fay that she shouldn’t be sharing so much of her food, because she’s too thin as she is. Fay didn’t respond, carefully stepping back but the woman promised she wasn’t trying to get her in trouble. Fay was asked whether she was an orphan.

Fay nodded. “I, um, yes.’’ She licked her lips nervously. “My—I don’t have anybody.’’ She glanced at Bag. “W-well, except Bag.’’

The woman looked amused. “Bag? What kind of name is that?’’ Fay shrugged, although she could feel Bag’s indignation rolling off of him as she kept her hand over his neck. The woman asked her if she’s already been taken in by Child Services which Fay wasn’t sure what it was, but she drew her own conclusions based on the name. “Um, n-no. I’d---I’d rather not.’’ Even if this ‘Child Services’ was of any help, there was no guarantee they won’t take Bag away, that they won’t prod and examine her and find out things she would rather they didn’t so it was safe to assume she wanted nothing to do with them. 

“Gotham is a pretty dangerous place to be walking around alone like that.'' The woman didn't sound judgemental; she was making an observation. 

“I—I’m, kind of new here.’’ Fay glanced down the littered streets stretching behind the woman and the queueing people. It wasn’t the poorest part of the town, but it wasn’t particularly taken care of either. “A-am I in trouble? I am sorry. I—I won’t come back.’’ She turned to leave, grabbing the strap of her duffel bag as she did but the woman stopped her. "Wait--wait just a second, kid!'' 

Fay kept her distance but turned to her side to show she was listening, Bag hovering protectively next to her. The woman’s eyes looked softer when she smiled, Fay thought to herself as she glanced at her face. _She had a pretty smile._ “My name is Dana. Dana Mercher. What is your name?’’ Fay bit on the inside of her cheek, hesitating. Bag was wary but he wasn’t assuming his usual stance when he felt they were in danger, so perhaps it was okay to say her name. 

“I am---Fay.’’ She wasn't sure when it was the last time she told someone her name. “Just Fay.’’ Because just Fay was what she was there (what she had been longing for).

“Well, _Just Fay_.’’ The woman's tried to lighten the conversation, but it failed to make Fay smile. “I am okay if you come back to get some food. There is someone from Child Services that often comes on the second floor. I am not going to lie-they are not very good at it in this city, but she’s a good woman and she might be able to help.’’ Fay was shaking her head even before Dana had stopped talking, anxiety fluttering rapidly. “N-no---they’ll take Bag away and I—I don’t want to.’’ The woman glanced at the paladin who met her gaze challengingly. He had tensed up after Dana’s implicit proposal and had pushed himself between them, like a shield. The girl was dwarfed by her companion's size, making her seem even younger than she must've been. 

“Okay.’’ The woman sighed. “I won’t force you. However, you need to be careful around these parts. Well, most of Gotham, really.’’

The woman was a breath of fresh air after the last four weeks. Fay couldn’t help but be sceptical about her mellow approach, because she wasn’t sure what else to expect. The woman didn’t try to stop her from walking away and before she went back in the soup kitchen, she mentioned how it’s usually better to look for shelter in the higher parts of buildings. Fay had caught her glancing pointedly at the top of the building where the flat roof pitched up in the middle, with a circular window in the middle.

_Wait. Is she trying to tell me....?_

Around the building, there was a narrow street with garbage bins and a fire exit zigzagging down the side of the wall. Bag jumped on it, pushed the ladder for her to climb on and then as quietly as possible they made their way up. She saw the canteen, as packed at it always was at that time of the day and the modest offices on the second floor, where the employees were too busy to even notice the girl and large dog pass by the emergency window. The window to the third floor was left unlatched and when Bag sensed nobody in the dark room, they climbed inside to look around. 

It was a large dance room with wooden floors and mirrored walls with a small seating area in one corner, where there were also some cabinets and a water dispenser. There was only one entrance, which led to a small landing where the stairs finished on that floor and gave way to other two doors. One bathrooms and a couple of shower cabins and the other for a storage area that both the soup kitchen and offices shared.

After inspecting those rooms, they went back in the dance studio and looked around again wondering whether they'd misinterpreted the woman's words. Then she saw the square hatch in the middle of the white ceiling. Ah. An attic? 

Once a upon time, she conquered heights with far more ease than she conquered walking. That was in a bygone era, so after many failed attempts to open the latch, they’d found a ladder in the thankfully unlocked storage room. The hatch must not have been used in a long time because it took a few minutes to get it unstuck before a sheet of dust fell on her, blurring her vision and clogging her lungs. There was an old retractable staircase, rather flimsy and with some broken steps, but enough to allow them to clamber in the dark narrow space above.

The attic only ran for part of the building, which explained why it was so small compared to the rest of the building's surface. The layers of dust had dulled the colours of the wooden accents and a good part of the space was filled with abandoned boxes and bags and plastic trolleys. Surprisingly, when she tugged on the string hanging above the hatch door, the electricity still worked but the lightbulb was on its last legs. Mice scurried off in the holes in the walls and Fay instinctively gripped on Bag’s fur when she saw the thick cobwebs decorating the space. She had spent much of her time in the wilderness as a child and she wasn’t particularly fazed by rodents or critters and most insects; spiders, however, had a way of unsettling her. She couldn’t remember if she’d always been this afraid of them, but they made her recoil in ways that few other things did (enough to trigger her anxieties at times, too).

Although very wary of being in such an enclosed space, they had started rummaging through the boxes and bags a few minutes later. It wasn’t until later that afternoon that Dana came to check in on them. She knocked on the hatch and waited until Fay opened it rather than forcing her way in. Fay and Bag looked down at her from the attic, as she lowered the tail of a broom she seems to have used to reach the ceiling. “All good there, kid?’’

“I-um,’’ Fay glanced around as if the musty space might offer her a way to express the confusion she felt. “…I am not sure.’’

“Is it okay if I come up?’’ So far, the woman hadn’t turned them in to the authorities or whatever Child Services was, hadn’t told her she couldn’t come back and had even been kind enough to direct them to a place that nobody else seemed to know about. Fay looked at Bag, whom only huffed slightly in response. He had no issue if she didn’t, so Fay slid backwards, as the woman climbed with surprising grace on the rickety ladder. 

The woman pushed herself to sit on the edge of the opening in the floor, letting her legs hang in the empty space below before gazing around thoughtfully. “Hm, shouldn't be too hard to get it cleaned.’’ She then looked at Fay whom wasn’t sure what she was meant to say, trapped between feeling paranoid and hopeful that the woman was indeed offering that safe space, instead of just putting them in an improvised cage.

Dana must've read the apprehension on her face. “Look. I’ve lived enough in this place to know what happens to kids like you. The system is broken and underfunded and you’ll end up bouncing from family to family or at the orphanage.’’ The woman reached to roll the sleeves of her plaid shirt up and Fay tried not to allow her eyes linger on the myriad of scars that littered the woman's pale skin. In some places, it looked as if someone had taken a knife and tried to draw on it. “I wish I could help you more but now I can only offer you this place. It’s not exactly a home, but it’s warm and it’s dry and most importantly, rent free. The previous tenants on the second floor dumped their stuff here a while ago after their retail store went bust and the landlord can't make money off of it so he never checks it.’’ The woman lowered her hands on her thighs and waited patiently for Fay to mull over her words, while she fidgeted with her bracelets. 

“So—Bag and I can stay here? For—for how long?’’ There had to be a catch. There generally was. Not that selfless acts did not exist; Fay just hasn't been receiving end for a long time. 

“As long as it works. Now, all I am asking in return is that you don’t bring trouble. You don’t strike me as the type of kid who likes trouble, but someone might report you if they see you live here. So, you can use this place, as long as you—‘’ the woman gave the paladin a pointed look. “—or your dog don’t attract attention. People will complain if they find there’s a kid and their dog living in the attic and the landlord is not exactly a nice man.’’

They could do that. They’ll find a way to remain discreet if it means having a place to hunker down, at least until Fay decided what the next steps are. She still found it odd that the woman was willing to risk the animosity of the landlord just to help her. “Why—why are you helping me, Miss Mercher?’’ 

“Just call me Dana, it's okay.’’ The woman then smiled ruefully. “I have a son who is a few years older than you. I don’t want to think what it’d be like if he was out on these streets alone. Even with a big dog to protect him.’’ Bag huffed, feeling underestimated. The woman looked amused with his rather strong personality (oh, she had no idea). 

Fay nodded, finding her voice with difficulty due to the tight grip of emotion that enclosed around her throat. “T—thank you. I really appreciate it. I promise I won’t cause any trouble.’’ 

“Good.’’ Dana wiped her hands over the hub of her kneecaps. She wasn’t wearing her apron, just a pair of jeans and a loose button-up plaid shirt. “Now. Only people who know about this are me, and Mack in the kitchen. He’s our cook. If you want food, you can come through the back. There’s an exit down the street where the staircase is, and if you knock on it three times, he’ll let you in.’’

They were being offered food too. Surely, they couldn’t be that lucky. Not after everything. Right? “I—um, I can’t pay you---‘’

“I run a soup kitchen, kid. Ensuring people have a stomach full, even if they can’t have anything else, is what I do.’’ The woman's gaze hardened again. “Plus, you and your dog can’t survive just on some bowls of soup and cupcakes. I can’t make any promises, but I might have some odd jobs for you in the kitchen. I won’t always be able to pay you but it’s something to start with. What do you say?’’

Fay felt really humbled and her eyes as if they were on fire. “Thank--thank you so much.’’ She could hear _her_ voice in her head, telling her that kindness had a way of shining bright even in the darkest moments and Fay felt suddenly like crying. It wasn't fair, having to keep hearing their voices like that, still teaching her good things when most of the good had been ripped away from her life. 

“Great. Well, remember what I told you. Nobody can see you go in and out. The dance classes take place throughout the week, so you need to make sure you wait until they’re done to go out or come in.’’ Fay nodded in understanding. The woman moved down the stairs but stopped short before her head could disappear past the hatch to smile at her again. “I will give you a hand once the canteen clears out a bit, in a couple of hours so just sit tight.’’ Fay watched speechless as the woman disappeared down the stairs before pushing the steps upwards and allowing Fay to close the hatch.

She exchanged a look with her paladin. “…. can you believe what just happened, Bag?’’

“Rggg….?’’

No, he couldn’t either.

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.

.

True to her words, Dana had come back that afternoon around five, with gloves and masks and a broom and bin bags. Fay awkwardly accepted them, still finding it hard to wrap her head around how quickly their predicament had changed. A part of her still believed there was a trap waiting the moment they relaxed too much.

Dana had tried to ask her where her parents were, or she came from, but Fay didn’t budge. The answer must’ve been obvious on her face, when the woman asked her if her parents had passed away because after that there were no more questions. It was a Monday, so they did not have to worry about the dance class; Dana told her to throw out any items she thought weren’t useful while she hoovered (much to Bag’s horror) and wiped down everything (she was incredibly efficient). Fay had found boxes of clothes, most of which had been eaten away by moths and rodents, magazines that did not interest her, many, many plastic hangers thrown about and even a couple of mannequins. Most of items ended up in the bins outside.

Dana changed the lightbulbs, while Fay decided to keep the large pea-sized seat that Dana referred to it as a ‘bean bag’ because it still seemed in a usable shape. There was also an old, round table with a wobbly foot that was good to use as well so they left that in one corner of the room. Once done, the attic felt far bigger and Fay realized that the wooden beams and floor had rather nice shades of brown. Dana left her with a bowl of soup and bones for Bag, before telling her she’ll come back to check in the morning.

Fay didn’t really sleep that night, but for the first time in over a month, she didn’t feel as if she was standing in the line of fire. Bag, certainly, felt the same even as he kept shifting from one end to another of the attic, ears perked and stance tense.

Three weeks later, the attic looked more like a compressed living space than---well, a dump. Dana has given her an old inflatable mattress, a sleeping bag, blankets and pillows. It wasn’t that cold outside, but the attic tended to run cooler, and it will only get worse when the weather turns, so the items were welcomed. Fay used the beams above her head to hang some sheets to fall around the bouncy mattress (which Bag loved rather much) in a sort of make-shift canopy bed. Fairy lights now brightened her attic at night, but she always made sure to cover the windows with some flattened boxes as to not give herself away.

The hatch was located halfway across the length of the attic, so if in one end she set up their sleeping place, on the other end she had kept the bean bag and the table and other items. Each end of the attic had windows, but the one facing the boulevard was bigger, taking half of the triangular wall. She preferred sleeping on the other end because of the noises at night: after all, what if the attacks in that city hit too close to where they were? The larger window made them too vulnerable, facing out the main street like that. The other window, however, allowed her visibility of the roof of the buildings next to theirs, and the dark narrow street below them. If it came down to it, they could make the jump on the other side (even as out of shape as she was, the distance between the buildings would not be that challenging).

They hadn’t planned on staying that long, but Dana’s kindness and generosity had given them a respite. She needed to learn more about that world if they wanted to travel successfully across the other side of the world and find a way back home so why not take advantage of the shelter they’ve been offered?

Because she couldn’t stay there. It had been a mistake.

(Right?)

.

.

.

A month since their arrival in Gotham, they had fallen into a calming routine, even if the city did not feel entirely welcoming or safe. She’d feed the cat – _whom she is still not sure where it came from or how_ -, the ferret – _whom ended up following her from the park one day_ – and the frizzy, white dog she’d found hiding under the bin a couple of weeks after they’d settled in. They became permanent residents immediately after. 

Bag would check the floor below them before she’d clamber down to wash her face and teeth using the dance studio’s bathroom. Ready for the day, they’d leave the trap door closed behind them before carefully making their way down the fire exit ensuring nobody sees them. The soup kitchen’s back exit was only fifty or so away from the stairs, and she’d wait for Dana or Mack to let her in. 

Bag would take his place near the entrance, on a ratty old blanket and next to a bowl of water as Fay set about cleaning the kitchen. The soup kitchen generally ran from eleven in the morning until nine in the evening and Dana would always try to clean the kitchen as much as possible before the the cook – Mack- would come in around eight to get started on preparing the food. Robby, Dana’s seventeen-year-old son would often help in the afternoon and over the weekends, but other than that Mack did most of the work. He was incredible, if one asked Fay and he treated the kitchen the way an artist would treat his studio. He had a specific preference about where he kept everything, and he did not like to deviate from the methodical way in which he worked. It was also perhaps volunteers rarely were ever allowed back there much to Dana’s exasperation (it always amused Fay whenever they’d bicker over it).

Dana’s ‘odd job’ had been to help with keeping the kitchen relatively clean, which always looked as if it had been invaded by mischievous waifs. Dana would try to stay late to get it in a relatively good shape, but s both her and Mack would be tired they wouldn’t make much progress most days. The woman had asked her to just sweep the mess from previous night and to start on the pots until Mack came in at eight. Fay misunderstood and she had ended up doing far more than just that. Impressed with her work (Fay wasn’t sure if they were really impressed or pitying her), Dana asked her to come back in at six the next day after Fay told her that she was a morning person (she really wasn’t, but the nightmares and that city’s loudness forced her to be).

That is how Fay ended up working at the soup kitchen four days a week for the better part of the day. Dana had started trusting her with the keys which meant Fay could get started earlier if she felt restless or could not sleep. The woman would always be in before seven, followed shortly by a couple of regular volunteers (Gloria and her husband, Ben, both retired) on Mondays, Wednesdays and Sundays. The other volunteers weren’t regulars, but Fay could recognize their faces when she saw them from time to time, when they’d sit on the fire exit eating their lunch.

She wasn’t really allowed to serve upfront; something about it being considered child labour if someone saw her working so she generally spent her shift in the kitchen. Satisfied with her being able to abide by his working style, Mack had started to allow her to get more involved: chop this, chop that, put the deliveries away, wash the vegetables, get more cutlery and napkins for him to pass outside. Every day, she’d get breakfast and lunch for free, and Bag would get apples and bones. It wasn’t enough for his appetite, of course, but Dana had started paying her weekly. The pay varied, from fifty to hundred or so, which was more than enough for her to cover expenses for Bag’s food and later, their newest guests (whose presence Dana found amusing but didn’t question).

It wasn’t the only place that helped her financially. Dana took her to Mr. Yuri’s meat shop whom despite his rather unpleasant personality had asked her if she wanted to make some extra money delivering some cool boxes to some of his most loyal clients. They generally consisted of elderly people living in a nearby apartment block and a couple of other restaurant owners also within reasonable walking distance. Dana hadn’t been happy for her to be used as a mule, but Fay accepted. The man had rationalised she was less likely to get in trouble with a large dog protecting her and he wasn’t wrong, even if it made him unscrupulous. He’d give her leftover cuts of meat and bones for Bag and if she did particularly well on her deliveries (which she did most days), he’d also give her ten or twenty dollars on each day.

Sometimes he’d send her farther, and she had a feeling he was doing it just to test her, but for all of her failures, Fay knew she was rather good at running (in more ways than one) and navigating her way in wild environments. Gotham was just another type of jungle as far as she was concerned and just as dangerous, so she treated it as such. After two weeks of working for Mr. Yuri, she had gotten to know very well which areas were best avoided as well. Having Bag with her certainly helped; not only people were generally disinclined to accost her, but his incredible senses made it easy to avoid potential threats.

For the first time she arrived in that world, she felt she had a modicum of clarity.

.

.

.

Mack talked a lot; about many things Fay fully didn’t understand but his jovial attitude was a bit like standing next to a smaller sun. Robby was gentle and mild-mannered. He told her he wants to be a veterinarian so rather than being intimidated by Bag, he awed at her paladin and complimented how well taken care he looked, what a unique breed he was, what a ‘fine specimen’ he was. Bag gloated for days after that and decided Robby was his favourite out of the three main members of the kitchen.

Fay received her own apron a week after starting to work there. 

She had forgotten what it felt like to feel proud of something and it wasn’t quite what she felt that day, but it was close enough.

.

.

.

What had been an unfortunate transition point in their aimless journey, had turned into an unexpected home. No, not a home. She no longer had a home, not the one she grew up with, the one her heart yearned for. They did not have a sanctuary either, because Gotham did not feel like one, but they had a --- _homebase_. There. That word felt safer than home.

She hides her savings and precious stones in a safe place and started planning their journey to the other side of the world. They had eight months and they’ve decided they’ll see the winter through in that place, if nothing goes sideways. Travelling to the other continent would be rather difficult given she was an unaccompanied child with no real identity and a large ‘dog’ in tow. So, she’d started exploring different options, keeping them jotted down on the notebooks she kept hidden away.

Ideally, she wanted for them to leave Gotham right as the winter ended, preferably end of January and have several months to explore Europe.

Did they want to go back? Yes. No. Maybe. She didn’t really feel like she belonged anywhere, but Bag did belong back to Maysoon. He was meant to be free, not sleeping in a stuffy old attic with her in a dangerous city where he would constantly worry about her (because sometimes the fear would cripple her so much so she was rendered to a useless bag of skin and muscles and bones).

She did want to stay there longer than eight months; perhaps not in Gotham but that world for certain. There was so much to see and to learn and to lay her eyes on. She hadn’t felt enthusiastic about anything in a long time but being there brought an old-forgotten buzz in her veins. What use was there for her back home, anyway? All she did was embarrass herself and put others at risk and taint _their_ reputation.

That world was scary and unpredictable and dangerous, but it was also fascinating and simultaneously different and like her world.

All there was left for her was studying, learning; they were few of the things that made her want to stay in the present than live in the past. She would not say she had anything to look forward but she felt---satisfied. Not happy, but small measures of contentment.

That world was the only tie to _them_ that didn’t hurt as much as everything else. It was a territory _they_ had not conquered with their presence, a territory where she would not be pitted against _their_ memory, where she could even dare to forget she was anything but Fay, the girl who worked at the soup kitchen and lived in the attic above it. Aside from Bag, no one knew who she had been, who she was then, whom she was meant to be (and whom she’d never succeed at being).

It was a type of freedom, for sure.

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.

.

Fay had grown up surrounded by fine things, eating fine foods and dressed in fine clothes. She had been fulfilled, materially and emotionally, despite certain moments when she felt she had been born unblessed. She was raised to be humble, however, so she did not grow up with a sense of entitlement and work ethic had been drilled into her since from a young age. Nobody is entitled to any riches or success; they must work for it. A person can cut corners and take shortcuts, but they will never appreciate what true hardship means unless they’ve experienced it (she hadn’t understood fully either, until that night and what happened after and her time in that world).

A lesson without pain or sacrifice is not a lesson that will stick. Some lessons, Fay learned, can be so painful they can kill you. Slowly, from the inside out even if you suffered no psychical injuries.

It was perhaps those teachings that allowed her to adapt rather easily to being without fine things. Shedding her old identity meant shedding those privileges as well and while she sometimes missed how much easier it had been to just be offered things, there was a sense of control in getting them for herself that was liberating. She had not much control over aspects of her life, but surviving was a task she had to fully apply herself and be resourceful about.

Part disgust and part concern about hygiene had forced Fay to seek alternatives of showering herself than using the bathrooms of the dance studio (nobody really did, and they looked like it). The river was absolutely not a choice. There were no natural bodies of water in that city and the man-made reservoirs inspired less faith than the river did. She’d found that the ‘gym’ nearby the soup kitchen had shower areas for women only and although public, they looked several times cleaner than the one in her building. It wasn’t always possible to use the showers there, because it depended on whether the window was left open and if it there were many people inside. She doubts women inside would appreciate if they suddenly saw a child climb inside on the second-floor window while they were trying to shower themselves or get dressed. The gym was open from five in the morning until midnight, so she’d learned which times it was best to go.

She was always quick, and she’d always use the shower cabin nearest to the window so she could hear Bag if he wanted to alert her. Washing him was easier; she could always the hose Mack would connect at one of the sinks to clean her paladin (and with watermelon shampoo, his choice).

That was until she came across Gotham Academy. A large property, several miles up north from where the soup kitchen hidden from curious eyes by tall fences of wrought iron and thick ivy. She had spotted the building when Mr. Yuri had asked her to go and deliver an ice box to one of his ‘old mates’ in that area, the owner of a sandwich shop. The man had been nice enough to give both her and Bag two ham sandwiches and they ate while standing on a bench across from the Academy.

She watched cars – far different than most she’d seen up until then – go in and out of the private road past the tall gate and pick up students of all ages, dressed in grey and blue uniforms as they seemed to be finished for the day. Having the afternoon off and her interest piqued after seeing that one part of the building had an entrance with the word ‘library’ above it, they came back on a weekend day when the property was likely to be vacated. Robby had told her that the academy was a place for the wealthier children, age five to seventeen and that it’s counterpart, Gotham Middle School, looked like a parody in comparison to it. Fay hadn’t seen that other school, but she believed him; he didn’t look bitter having himself attended the latter and instead expressed relief at not being part of the ‘elitist, entitled cliques’ that were likely to have formed inside the richer school.

Fay could understand where he came from, and he was right to an extent but as someone who’s experienced cruelty from people from different classes, she found it to be universal.

Anxieties and paranoia were overridden by her curiosity and they ended up sneaking inside in the late afternoon on a Saturday. It hadn’t been too difficult; there were only two guards outside and two more inside, but they patrolled together which meant it’d take them at least half an hour to get from one end to another. She’d found a window open at the building which had the immense pool and several other sports rooms. As she’d learn from her subsequent visits, there’d always be a window somewhere that’d be forgotten unlatched or left ajar.

The first few visits had been tentative and short-lived until they learned the guards shifts and patrolling habits; a week in sneaking in there she had a pretty good idea of both. There were CCTV cameras, but only in the main areas like the entrances and exits which she avoided religiously. Bag could always warn her too if there were people approaching, so they’d always find ways to avoid the guards.

The library set up in a grandiose room with thousands of books was generally her first choice to be in and she’d often end up spending the majority of the night perusing the books, hidden amongst the rows with a flashlight and Bag sitting beside her. It was peaceful; for brief moments she almost felt as if she was back home hiding behind towers of books, enjoying the way the sunshine coming through the tall windows warmed her skin.

Sometimes, late at night when she’d feel restless or trying to distract herself from sudden onslaught of anxieties gripping her body, they’d wander around. They’d explore classrooms and wonder what kind of foods they served in the sumptuous canteen – easily twice as large as the soup kitchen – and examined paintings decorating the walls. The shower facilities there outstripped the gym’s in both size and quality, and she’d be able to take a longer time when she knew the guards were not due to come around for a while. Bag would keep guard either way.

Survival felt less like survival and slightly more like living; brief moments though, whenever her mind would be too distracted from reminding her constantly the reality, she now lived in.

.

.

.

Gloria was a chatty woman, the opposite of her usually silent husband, Ben. She had a soft, soothing voice, the type that made Fay want to listen to her talk for hours and it didn’t come as a surprise the woman had been a kindergarten teacher for forty years. Her husband, still working, is the owner of an independent woodworking shop which according to his wife is ‘successful enough to put food on their tables and a roof above their heads’. They lost their son when he was about Fay’s age to a gang shoot out, and their daughter moved away right after university, and now had a family of her own.

Gloria did not like silence, Fay learned quickly. She also did not like staying still; always moving about, doing something or other, no matter how mundane the task. Ben was silent but he was a rather gentle soul; he seemed to have a soft spot for Bag and the paladin returned it, allowing the man to pet him even though he didn’t like being treated like a dog. According to his wife, Mr. Fowler usually spent his time in his atelier, and she would have to drag him to volunteering, or otherwise there’d be days when he’d never come out of the house.

Fay recognized grief when she saw it and the different forms it could take. Gloria probably enjoyed keeping herself busy because it was a way of distracting her from sad and painful thoughts like Fay did. The young girl would sometimes see the woman space out and her face darken at whatever memory had managed to filter through in her mind.

Ben was a workaholic because that was his distraction, perhaps. Her uncle behaved like that too; throwing himself in more and more responsibilities until he had no time to think about anything else. It was also how he compartmentalized his life; why sometimes he couldn’t understand why other people couldn’t do the same and he’d come across as cold, unfeeling. Mr. Fowler never really spoke but the way he looked at her sometimes made Fay wonder if she was causing him pain, being around the age his son was.

They were kind people, if a bit conservative and they didn’t ask questions where she’s come from, but Robby did cover saying she was the daughter of one of his friends that he’d sometimes tutor while working at the soup kitchen.

Kindness had a way of shining bright, like diamonds in ash. Sometimes you’d have to wait a while to see them.

It was ironic that in a place like Gotham those words did not feel as empty as they did before.

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.

The year after the world as she knew it crumbled away had been characterised by a wild switch between days when she felt nothing and days when she felt so much, she had thought she was dying (and wished she did). The grief was still excruciating at times, and if she didn’t have that to worry about, then there were the panic attacks and the insidious, dark thoughts of self-hatred and self-pity that sometimes felt they belonged to another person, although they were all a part of her. A part that hid in the deepest corners of her mind and came out to torment her whenever she dared to feel anything but sorrow or pain.

That voice won’t allow her to forget what she lost; won’t allow her to move forward because _she does not deserve it_. Often Fay would fall pretty to that - _vicious, unrelenting, cruel_ – voice and she’d wonder after if that’s what happened when people suffered a loss far too big for them to process it. If their sorrow and shame and guilt would gather itself in a corner of their mind, like a dark sentry intent on banishing away hope and pride and innocence from ever coming through again. It had to be; otherwise why would she be the way she was? She wondered if that’s how Dana and Mr. and Mrs. Fowler felt when they thought about their losses. She had thought many, many times how others seemed to have just moved on from what happened; how could they possibly just accept what had transpired?

Then again, she was _broken_. That’s what people whispered, when they thought she couldn’t hear them. They weren’t wrong.

There are not enough words in the world to describe how she felt sometimes; her own mind would not be able to process them. Perhaps that’s what panic attacks were; not just consequence of her trauma but her psyche malfunctioning for it was being fed something it could not deal with.

She wondered if there was ever a day when she won’t malfunction.

After all, that’s what the bracelets were for. To put a stop to one side of her that stopped working properly, although it was akin to being put in a cage. Fay understood why it had to happen; she was broken, and she could not be fixed, and she’d just end up hurting herself and others around her.

_You deserve it._

_I deserve it._

However, there’d be small moments when even the sentry could always not be on guard and she’d feel a touch of those emotions that made her feel lighter, warmer, _alive._ They were intermittent and some faltered quicker than others, but they’d generally set the tone for the day. They’d resurface when Dana or Mack would compliment her work ethic, when Robby would smile at her charmingly, when Gloria would speak to her in that soothing voice of hers about what she’s done for the day, when Ben brought her a wooden figurine of Bag, when she’d take her paladin to the park and he’d instigate playful games like they used to play all the time back at home, when they’d run so hard through the streets of Gotham she almost felt she was back in the jungle, when she studied about that world or would start on a new book, when the animals that left with them snuggled against her at night.

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.

Fay labelled her days in three ways. Most Days were the days when she didn’t feel neither empty nor particularly alive, when the world was colourless but bearable. Anxiety thrummed in her body at manageable levels because she had found many ways to distract her mind away from thoughts that would easily spiral into dangerous territories. It was an unwanted companion, the anxiety, but she had resigned herself to it.

The Good Days were the days of ‘good moments’, varying in intensity and never truly matching the fully formed emotions she’d once experienced greedily but strong enough to deafen the anxiety and fears. The grief never really went away, sitting like a permanent heavy weight in her chest but she found it easier to carry that weight around on those days. Good Days didn’t come often, and they did not follow a schedule, but when they did, she’d soak them in ravenously. She’d keep track of the objects or people or conversations that made her feel that way in preparation for the other days.

The Bad Days. They vary too, in intensity but they’d always feel like a slow death. She had to keep track of the Good Days because it was what they kept her alive through the Bad ones; all her good memories have been tainted, rendering them useless so she had to find other coping mechanisms.

If Good days were the ones that offered temporary respite and reminded her that there was more to the world than just sadness and hopelessness and self-hatred, the Bad Days were days when she had to continuously fight with her broken mind, to remind herself that she was alive, that she had to stay alive, that she deserved to be alive. The latter was incredibly difficult to believe, but she’d use the notes from the Good Days, and she’d use Bag as an anchor in the tsunami of dark, ferocious emotions that threatened to bury her beneath their weight.

It didn’t matter if she didn’t want to be alive in those moments; it didn’t matter if she didn’t deserve Bag as her paladin. The fact was that he was her paladin, that he was stuck here with her in that world and she had to stay alive for him, if not for herself.

She’s not sure what Dana thinks of her on those days when she refuses to come down. Fay had to tell her she suffers from nightmares, that sometimes she needs to catch up on the sleep and the woman had always been understanding. For now. Kindness rarely was endless and the thought they might lose their shelter in that attic because of her own broken self would only fuel the Bad Days in crippling her mentally and psychically.

Her mind would feel fragmented, her anxiety a terrifying cobweb encompassing her body, making her marks feel like fresh tattoos and her bracelets to burn blisters onto her wrists. Her skin felt several sizes too small, squeezing her, her body on the edge of collapsing on itself. Sometimes she’d just wish that; that her body would just give out instead of keeping her on the edge: close enough to feel like a death but not close to make it happen. She’d throw up; her body would enter a heightened state of fight-or-flight except the threats are not around her but _inside_ her.

She can run away from home and the reminders and the people there, she could change her identity and pretend she’s someone else, but her mind didn’t forget, and it’d punish her for trying to do on Bad Days. Her body would suffer in the process too and although those bad moments never lasted more than a few hours, they’d feel like an eternity. The world as she knew it did not exist around her; the attic would be replaced by the jungle, and burning buildings, and bleeding rivers and blood-curdling screams.

She’d be stuck in those nightmares although she’s not actually asleep, her mind putting them on replay again and again and again. When the darkness would finally claim her, she’s not sure whether it’s because her mind or body had finally given up, but she’d always wonder if she’d wake up again.

Bad Days weren’t terrible just because of the crippling panic attacks and torturing flashbacks but also due to their ability to make her feel adrift for days after. Good Days rarely ever stretched over into consecutive days, but the Bad Days had a way of affecting long after they’ve reached their peak. She’d feel tired but would not be able to sleep, too jittery and on edge; she’d feel hungry but she wouldn’t be able to hold food down because of the increased levels of anxiety; any potential ‘good moments’ would brush her by, dulled by the corrupting power of Bad days even as if she tried to leave them behind.

It was such a day when she met the boy with green eyes.


	2. Of lonely birds, burning buildings and courage

_“If you could say it in words, there would be no reason to paint.”  
_

_Edward Hopper_

_._

_._

_._

_3 rd of August_

The weather had grown kinder as the August month arrived, but Fay hadn’t really paid much attention to the sunny days and warm breeze. The last Bad Day had left her feeling particularly exhausted and she’d been struggling to eat more than a couple of fruits and biscuits without vomiting. Throughout her fourth and fifth week there she had had at least four different panic attacks and she no longer remembered the last time she had more than three hours of sleep per night. She’d lost weight, which was not good given she was already gaunt as it is, but she tried to hide it as best as she could under layers of clothes even though people around her walked around in tank tops and shorts. The bracelets did an effective job at keeping the marks glamoured away but it was a temporary effect -- whenever she'd get emotional, they'd always resurface just like the runes. They never really disappeared, she could always feel them.

Dana must’ve noticed the growing bags under her eyes and the even quieter attitude she had, because she’d been cutting Fay’s shifts shorter and asking her to take more breaks. Fay appreciated her efforts and lied about feeling better afterwards. 

Things took a turn when Robby asked her if she wanted to go with him to the museum that afternoon. With a renewed anticipation, she had allowed Robby to lead them to the Gotham Museums, which apparently had been closed temporarily for several months while undergoing major renovations. The Arts and Antiquities Museum, the main building which faced Gotham Boulevard was six stories tall and stretched so long that it was hard to spot the other museums nestled behind it in an enclosed campus lined by tall fences. It contained over nineteen period rooms spanning several thousand years of world culture and another three interactive rooms designed to cater to different age groups. An entire wing of the museum was dedicated solely to some of the greatest artists of that world, along with information where their paintings could be found across the world.

From the Arts and Antiquities Museum, visitors can access the History Museum, a smaller but just as fascinating build towards the left-hand side of campus. On the right-hand side, the new Science Museum had yet to be unveiled, having been rebuilt from scratch and expanded with additional floors and exhibit rooms. It was scheduled to open on 1st of October. 

They spent four hours at the museum that day but it felt like minutes only and for the first time in four days Fay had forgotten how unwell she felt, mentally and psychically and had gorged herself on the large source of information available before her eyes.

Children generally had to enter accompanied by an adult, but when Fay returned the next day, nobody stopped her when she stepped through the revolving doors and into the grand hall. The guards asked to check her backpack as they did with everyone that came through but didn’t really bat an eye at her otherwise. Bag unfortunately had to stay outside, because like many other places there, animals were prohibited. He wasn’t unhappy being parted from her while she wandered the maze of halls alone and she didn’t enjoy him being treated as a lesser being, but the museum visits were not just to satisfy her curiosity. They would help her become more knowledgeable of that world. The more they knew, the better they’ll be prepared for the long journey ahead of them in a few months’ time. 

The museum rapidly became a powerful coping mechanism. It had a way of making her feel comfortable in her body and stimulating her mind in forgetting everything else that had nothing to do with what was in there (even when she came across works of art that _they_ had taught her about). Except Bag, of course. She’d always keep him at the back of her head, reminding herself to regularly check on him every couple of hours even if it meant her going and back forth those halls and cut into her visitation time. 

Entrance was free, but she splurged on an annual sixty-five-dollar VIP membership because it gave her access to exclusive exhibits and discounted food and events. She’d also learned the days and times when it was best to go to avoid the crowds which could trigger her anxieties and to be able to peacefully examine the exhibits without people pushing around, chattering incessantly and photographing themselves instead of admiring the beauty of that place.

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_12 th of August _

That day the newest exhibit on the third floor was open to VIP members only, at three o’clock in the afternoon. Determined to make the best of her membership and potentially reduced crowds, Fay had wandered in the museum an hour before the start of the guided tour, relieved to know Bag had found a spot to hide behind a tree in the small park next to the Arts and Antiquities building. Unfortunately, not long after her entrance she had started feeling sick and she had ended up doubling over the toilet in the nearest bathroom. Her first proper meal in days and it went all down the drain. 

Emotionally frayed, she had ended up balling her eyes out for no reason other than she felt sick of being sick. When her small breakdown finished and she had left the bathroom with a pounding headache and aching eyes, she realized she had been in there for almost an hour. With far less interest than originally, she had walked up to the third floor where the meeting point was for anyone who held a VIP membership. Nobody was there but she found the group and guide in the exhibit room down the hall.

It took her a few moments to understand where exactly the art pieces were because the arrangement of random objects and non-descript canvases looked out of place. It wasn’t until she observed how the thirty-odd group of people leaned enthusiastically to examine those objects that she realized they were part of the new exhibit. Nobody paid her any mind even though she seemed to be the only minor there as she slid through a few people to look closer, thinking perhaps she was missing something. 

What did a blank canvas with three dots even mean? Why were there spaghettis glued onto another? Why was there a cheese grater painted blue and just left on a table? Why were the canvases so large yet so deprived of subjects?

Why was the guide looking enthusiastic when he turned towards a canvas and pointed that the splashes of orange colour had _been regurgitated_ by the artist? That world was strange in many ways, but she hadn’t felt that much confusion since her first few days there. She’d never thought she’d see coloured vomit being appraised in such a manner, but the guide looked particularly convinced when he described it as an ‘ _original, shocking way of expressing youth disgust with capitalism’._ …What? She had vomited several times in the bathroom, and she was quite certain it had no meaning other than well---sickness. 

_Maybe…maybe I should really get some sleep._

There were some art pieces – if random objects could be called that - that seemed more interesting than others, although they did not hold her attention for long. In some ways that ‘modern’ art was remarkable, in the sense she’d never expect to see it in a museum and it certainly stood out, but it had no positive connotations otherwise for her. Seeing so many people push and pull to take pictures, ascribing them more meaning than they deserved evoked a mixture of puzzlement and indignation and amusement. Oh, how mortified her uncle would be if he knew this is what outsiders called art. His reaction would have been funny though (he rarely ever lost his composure but when he did his body never seemed to know how to deal with it). 

She ended up breaking away from the group a few minutes into joining it and drifted across the room where a scandalously small space had been reserved for twenty-odd paintings drawing inspiration from more traditional art movements: impressionist, realism, surrealism, Art Noveau. The territory felt familiar there; she recognized the techniques that inspired those paintings and that familiarity grounded her. Seeing other people’s vomit did no favours to her already upset stomach.

A few people had moved around the room, taking pictures and casting their eyes on those paintings as well but they eventually returned to where the majority stood by modern art pieces. The silence in that end of the room was welcomed however and she was grateful nobody could see how one painting had ended up rattling her. Painting number twenty-three had no author and no title, and it was dwarfed by bigger paintings on the wall, but she found she could not tear her eyes from it. Objectively it did not hold the brightest colours or eye-catching subjects, nor it had an interesting frame, but to her all the other paintings had faded in the background.

She wasn’t sure how long she’d ended up staring at it, but no matter how many times she went over it with her eyes, she’d find she missed additional details. The artist was a master of deception and it made her wonder whether the artist even wanted to capture the viewer’s attention since it required her some time to decipher all the elements.

At first glance, it was an impressionist rendering of a night starless sky with a moon in the middle, reflecting in the rippling surface of a dark body of water below. There was a bare tree that unfurled on the left-hand side of the painting, its branches painted with the typical short, quick impressionist strokes. The dark choice of colours stood out compared to other impressionist paintings she knew about, but the ethereal glow of the moon had been painted in such a way that she could easily imagine standing in that dark setting illuminated only by the moon. There were very few hard edges across the painting and the author had given depth by manipulating the moon’s light to his or her advantage, enough to allow the viewer to distinguish the various subjects if they paid close attention.

It wasn’t until she had looked closer that she realized the sky had not been painted just black and dark blues; there were violent brush strokes of red and violet as if the sky secretly carried a secret fire that swallowed all the stairs.

The birds on the tree were also very interesting: most of them stood huddled on the lower branches, staring at each other, or at the audience or facing left and right. They weren’t all identical though, discreet brushstrokes having been applied differently to each bird. Like thumbprints, they looked identical but when examined closer, one could see how unique they were from one another.

There was another bird that stood on the highest branch, staring at the moon, its back turned to the viewer. It was such a peculiar way of positioning the bird compared to the rest that it could not have been done on a whim or accidentally. It had to have a meaning because its feathers were painted more closely with the sky, making it difficult to understand where it started a finished. The bird felt darker than the others, even though the moon’s glow should have made it the brightest. None of the other birds were remotely interested in looking at the moon or their peer standing so afar from them. They seemed too busy with one another or themselves.

She knew why that painting called to her. She could not put it in words, not really but it felt as if someone had dipped their paintbrush into her emotions then put them on the canvas. Her emotional state may have been clouding her analysis, but it did not matter. Art was subjective. Its power lied in the emotions it evoked in its viewer and in that moment, Fay felt as if she was staring at a deconstructed, abstract version of some of her deepest parts. 

There was a part of her that felt affronted by that painting; by seeing emotions she kept to herself being put on view for anyone to see. However, there was also that part of her that wept because she had never really found a way of acknowledging everything she felt, because there were emotions she had buried so deep that she would forget about or she’d refuse to acknowledge. She had to, because last time she had underestimated what lay beneath her grief she had ended up having to wear the bracelets on a permanent basis.

Or perhaps she was just tired, and she was overthinking everything as she usually did.

“You’re crying.’’

It was a shameful display, but she did squeal loudly when the male voice – far too close – penetrated her thoughts and broke the trance-like state she had entered. She jumped too, and she could only imagine what _that_ must’ve looked on the camera footage. She was not a graceful creature.

“W-what---?’’ Blinking rapidly had caused a few more tears to slid down her face.

_Wait…. tears?_

She reached to dab cheeks with the back of her sleeves and with no small amount of mortification she realized they were damp again. She really had been crying, _again_. Had she not been in such a humiliating situation she would have perhaps admired the incredible effect of art on the psyche. Alas, the harsh voice in the corner of her mind criticised her for being so weak to allow herself to be vulnerable in a public space.

It was all the boy’s fault, she thought meekly although she agreed she had been making a fool of herself. He looked around her age (perhaps younger given he was a couple of inches shorter than her) and he was dressed in a dark red jacket and a pair of dark trousers. He looked slim, but not in the unhealthy way she did underneath the oversized clothes. He had dark hair which seemed slightly overgrown but not unkempt and his eyes---

\--- _bright, green eyes_. No, no just green. She could see threads of golds near his irises blending in with various shades of green, even as she stood a few feet away. His eyes stood out like jewels against the warm tones of his skin, and there was an intensity to them that reminded her of a, well, something wild and untamed and quite possibly very dangerous.

The jungle. They reminded her of the jungle.

And of…. _her_.

 _She_ had green eyes too. A darker shade, but just as bright. Fay remembered the joy those eyes brought her because they held promises adventure and safety and unconditional love. The boy’s eyes made no such promises; his were harder, colder and they reminded her more of a predator’s eyes. Her spine tingled and she realized that as innocuous as he may have looked, there was something about him that made her instincts go haywire. Like when one can’t see or hear the threat, but they can _feel_ it in their muscles and bones.

 _He was not safe._ Rusting but never forgotten teachings told her that she should never trust a person at face value; when your body screamed something was off, you either fight or run. She was really not in any shape to fight (the fear and exhaustion and neglected body ensured that) yet she found herself rooted on the spot, kind of like that rabbit she had once watched Bag hunt down (it wasn’t pleasant but it was survival and such was the nature of food chain).

She took a few steps back, though, hands instinctively clenching as she lowered them to hold onto the straps of her backpack. She did not like the boy, she decided. There was an irrational part of her that thought he had no right to be there, to look at her when she was in such a vulnerable position, to scrutinise her with those green eyes of his and remind her of beautiful things in her life that were worlds away (and some dead and gone and never to be seen again).

“Painting number twenty-three. You’ve been staring at it for fifteen minutes.’’ He’s been watching her for fifteen minutes and she hadn’t even realized that? Wow. She reached new lows every day, didn’t she? “I want to know why you were crying.’’

\---he demanded it. Not asking politely, not even close to apologising for scaring the daylights out of her and imposing in on her personal moment. She stared at him speechless for a few moments before snapping herself out of it. “Why—I don’t know.’’ _She didn’t even know she had been crying._ How could she possibly tell him why?

There was a why, of course, but she did not want to disclose such information to him. Or anyone for that matter.

Hands in pocket, the boy analysed her in a way she’s seen others do it many times before. It was the kind of look that made her feel as if the other person was trying to pry her head open to see what was inside. It made her uncomfortable and the nausea returned with renewed strength.

He would not appreciate some modern art spilled on his shoes, would he?

No. Probably not (he’d probably deserve it though).

“You don’t know.’’ She’d heard that tone before too. She despised it because it had a way of making her feel small and pathetic and---another emotion she dared not name. “You are staring at it and you don’t know why it makes you cry?’’

She didn’t know him, but she couldn’t help but dislike him rather intensely already. Why did he want to know why she was crying? Did he just go up to every single person and ask them why they made faces, or did he just saw her as an easy target? (she was an easy target, truth be told).

“I—I know why—I just---‘’

“Don’t stutter.’’ Did her face twitch? She felt it twitch. “Just speak clearly.’’

“I—know why.’’ She spit out. “I just…. _don’t want to tell you_.’’ Whoa, Fay. Nice one. The dark voice at the back of her head was rather adept at using sarcasm it seems.

A dark brow lifted, and he did not seem particularly impressed with her answer, as if what she wanted was not of any consequence. The small rush of adrenaline that moment of defiance triggered helped her feet dislodge from the floor allowing a quick, hurried exit, sliding her way through the group of people that had started following the guide out into the next room. She ended up running at full speed all the way down to the third floor, past the grand hall and to the security check out where the routine check felt like an eternity. Her palms felt disgustingly sweaty and she kept glancing down the hall, terrified at the prospect the boy would just show up out of nowhere.

She had grabbed her backpack so quick from the guard’s hands she made him stumble after, but she didn’t stop, not even when she was past the revolving doors and running down the streets. She called out for Bag, whom jumped out from behind the tree like a shadow and easily caught up with her.

She ended up running the entire two miles back to the soup kitchen and when they were finally in the attic, she ended up crashing immediately after feeding everyone and changing out of her clothes. Dark birds and bright moons and mysterious green threaded through her thoughts before the darkness consumed her.

.

“ _Tt_.’’ Damian Wayne knew he was capable of instilling fear in others, but in that moment, he would have preferred if she had answered his question before running off.

It doesn’t really matter. Judging by her nervous disposition and the red, swollen eyes she was already in a frail state of mind even before laying her eyes on the painting so she could have been easily triggered by anything. She was, however, looking at the painting when it happened: not spacing out, lost in her own thoughts. He saw the way her eyes moved over every inch of the painting, dissecting it and if it wasn’t for the tears that had started streaming down her face, he would have just walked away albeit somewhat unnerved by the attention she was giving it.

What did she see in that painting that made her react in that manner?

Damian considered himself a connoisseur of human psychology, even at his young age, but he needed more data to draw accurate conclusions. It is not uncommon for people to be enraptured by art, but she was an outlier. She was young, perhaps not much older than him and the way the clothes hung on her figure indicated a very gaunt figure underneath. She did not seem homeless – clothes creased and oversized but clean-; poor. The worn-out backpack looked heavy, too big for someone so small to be wearing it, but she did not think to lower it on the bench behind her, nor sit down herself although he saw her shift from foot to foot and her hand instinctively touch her lower back.

She had already been upset when she came in, and she caught his attention because she was the only other minor in that room full of tasteless fools. She came in later than most too, her uneven fringe and shirt collar damp as if she had just splashed her face. She looked confused by the crowd and even more so by the modern pieces, before deciding to walk across the much quieter part of the room. Her face lightened and she considerably relaxed as she perused the wall but then she’d stopped in front of painting number twenty-three. He had concluded she had either drifted away in her own thoughts or was pretending to be interested (as some would) but when he’d approached to stand almost parallel to her, he saw that was not the case.

Damian knew he was an excellent artist; he knew his painting would stand out against the others, which ranged from subpar to adequate and some few acceptable exceptions. The group across the room may have been temporarily enamoured with art they probably had little understanding of but when that exhibit room will open to the wider public, he knew painting number twenty-three had the potential of garnering equal amounts of attention (certainly even more). It was a point of pride although he did not care much if the common masses liked it or not; they could admire his technique and give it the right credit, but they’d never its true meaning or how it came to be. 

If it had been by him, that painting wouldn’t have made it on the wall of the museum. Pennyworth had insisted, mentioning it would be a temporary donation and that his art should be displayed even if anonymous. Damian regretted the moment he said yes and should have chosen a different painting from the many that he kept in his bedroom. Paintings that had been completed in a far less emotional moment as much as he despised thinking of himself in that manner. However, going back on his commitment would mean admitting he had a sentimental connection to it _and_ that he had fallen for Pennyworth’s schemes.

(The moment it was back in his possession, he’ll burn it down before it even had a chance to be displayed again).

.

.

.

_13 th of August _

She wanted to go the museum again. She did not want to meet the boy with green eyes again though. She had no way of knowing if he’d show up again.

It was a large museum, so what were the chances of meeting him again?

After some deliberation, she did return two days later and although she knew she was being silly, she still felt on edge the entire time there. The boy hadn’t done anything to warrant such paranoia from her end. He had been abrupt and rude and rather invasive, but he had not stepped into her personal bubble, not asked her any other questions and did not go after her. Her instincts were trying to communicate something she was too anxious to perceive fully; sometimes it was hard to distinguish what was nerves and what is intuition.

She did return to the painting, all the while wondering if she had summoned the boy by staring at it for too long. Improbable (but not impossible). He did not appear out of thin air to question her however, nor did she cry this time around, but she did end up spending an hour in front of that wall.

.

.

.

_14 th of August_

Wandering around Gotham Academy at night, when the guards usually slacked on their patrolling duties, made her feel unfettered. With Bag guarding her closely she could take longer in the showers, allowing the soothing pressure of water to relax her muscles. Wandering around the city all day or spending hours in the kitchen made her feel disgusting but she couldn’t always afford to use the gym despite it being closer than the academy. The five miles were worth it if it meant she did not have to wash while being afraid a gym staff member might discover her.

Her paladin would also be more relaxed, because he found it easier to guard her there. He’d instigate her to chase him around the halls, or he’d prank the guards into checking out false alarms or he’d throw himself in the pool (much to her horror as he’d smell of chlorine for days).

That night he was in a mood of hide and seek. He was a naturally playful creature, but Fay knew he often acted in that manner because he wanted to cheer her up. Because he probably missed the old Fay, the one he’d partner up in causing mischief (she missed that old Fay too). She’d indulge him often because how could she not when they were everything to each other?

“Bag?’’ she called tentatively, her voice little more than a whisper, more out of reflex than a need for him to hear her. She clutched the straps of her backpack as she leaned to glance around corner of the wall she was hiding behind. The long hall was dark and silent, and she tried not to let it remind her of other dark hallways from the past, because those were filled with blood and debris and unmoving bodies. As she quietly stepped down the corridor dim motion-activated lights flickered to life above her head. She had seen him make his way in that direction, but he was also a predator that could blend in with the shadows so if he really wanted to hide, she’d have a very difficult time to find him.

He didn’t though. He knew how anxious she could get so he would never make the game too hard.

She found him hiding in canteen at the end of the hall, whose door he had purposefully left swinging slightly, hiding under the tables. It did temporarily delight her as he made her chase him between the tables, refusing to allow her to touch him and call the game off. He’d even made her chuckle when he tripped her with his tail, making her fall over him starting a roughhousing match.

Her paladin was balm for her aching soul and weary mind. 

.

Father had not been happy with his refusal to stay with the Teen Titans, eight months into joining them. While he…. _tolerated_ the undisciplined rag tag of superheroes slightly more than he did in the beginning, Damian still felt Gotham’s pull, its wretched darkness calling him back to the city. He did not need to be present at the Tower to be able to impart his knowledge or input and he also decided he’ll only to do so when the cases warrant it. Starfire was an adequate substitute in leading them in the meantime.

He had heard rumours of a new criminal making waves on the black market, one that provided ‘game-changing weapons’ to the highest of bidders from a bunch of crooks they had arrested in San Francisco. He had been on the lookout to validate those claims, but it appears some testing of such weapons has already started taking place…in Gotham. None of the crimes reported in the last six months had been out of ordinary, not for that city anyway but Damian identified seven different blackouts as having taken place in the same timeframe. Again, not entirely unusual given the natural chaos that permeated Gotham City.

The blackouts had taken place in low-income areas so the authorities would have not paid them any mind; even if the affected residents had reported it to the city council, nobody would have cared. Their reports would have fallen at the bottom of a very tall pile of complaints, already backlogged due to ineffective bureaucracy. None of the complaints had even be inputted into the system yet and although it did require some manual digging, he had found some of those neglected forms. 

The blackouts were sudden and irregular, and they never lasted more than twenty to forty minutes but they had caused many electronics to stop working altogether, some which never recovered after. The council would have blamed those issues on the neglected, old wirings that characterised the affected blocks, even if the complaints would have ever been looked at.

Interestingly, the radius of the affected areas increased two blocks to five; they always took place in the poorer areas of Gotham and never in the same location.

Hm. He certainly had something there. 

If the power cuts were a result of testing, nobody would have chalked it up to something unusual and even if they did, they would have assumed it characteristic of those types of neighbourhoods. There were also no CCTV cameras in that area, which meant the police would have yet another excuse to wipe their hands off it.

The most recent power cut took place two weeks prior to his return in a neighbourhood near East End Gotham. The two complaints issued in relation to it placed the inhabitants at a mile one from another. The blackout lasted between seventeen and twenty minutes and it took place between eleven and half past in the evening. A jewellery’s shop camera three streets down, did register a dark hooded figure that stood amongst the other inhabitants in the area, leaving at a rather quick pace from one of the blocks that were later affected and Damian managed to track the car they used to get away using the partial capture of the licence plate.

John Finnegan. Heroin addict; spent most of his life in and out of prison for dealing and some minor robberies. He had been released two months earlier for good behaviour and is known for hanging out with another D-class perp named Terrence Wyatt. The car is registered to an elderly woman named Hannah Walker, whom was founded dead in her apartment a week earlier.

Gunshot wound to the head.

The assailants filmed themselves breaking in the apartment, vandalising it and then frightening the poor woman into a crying mess. Then they shot her in the dead. The footage was uploaded onto a dark website and auctioned off for money from a sick and twisted audience. Wyatt had done that; he was the one who roughed up the victim and slapped her around and then shot her after falsely telling her they’ll leave her alone.

Wyatt will never walk again. He’ll live for the rest of his life with chronic panic and a damaged vision. Damian had ensured of it, even if it warranted his Father’s fury for days and even if he ended up being taken off patrol. He had considered exacting ‘ _justice, not revenge’_ had the imbecile not started to mock Walker’s death, going as far as expressing regret he hadn’t had ‘some fun’ with the victim because ‘for someone her age, she looked like she could still take it’. Damian did not want to kill him. No, of course not. He wanted to make sure instead Wyatt lived the rest of his miserable life in his own personal hell (he knew exactly how to apply just the right amount of damage to leave someone wishing they had died instead).

Finnegan was the other man Wyatt broke in the woman’s house with and he was currently nowhere to be found. For now. Damian will find the worm sooner than later, regardless his father forbidding him from doing anything Robin related for at least two weeks. 

Father had no place to lecture him on the rage he’s felt; as if he had never crippled a criminal before. Yet he insisted on seeing Damian just as Mother’s blunt tool, her homicidal genetically perfect creation, someone he’d never trust.

(The birds were too busy on their own branches to see what the other bird saw, whom they allowed to sit close to them but never quite on the same branches).

.

.

.

_15 th of August – 21:57_

Had the CCTV cameras worked on the streets around apartment block B, on Bromsgrove Road, they would have shown the moment a violent outburst of energy pushed itself from inside, tearing its way through scaffolding, walls and unfortunately, the homes of unsuspecting residents living there. They would have not, however, captured the terror and desperation many felt that night.

If the explosion did not kill those who were loitering around the old building, the debris did. Those who managed to move in time to avoid the giant of brick and metal fall on them, could have been considered lucky, if one saw ruptured eardrums and blast lungs as a blessing when compared to death. Block B was not close to other buildings for the explosion to affect their structure, but the shockwaves tore the glass of windows and balconies in the adjacent blocks, forcing residents in A and C to evacuate immediately.

The explosion had been quick and devastating. The aftermath was worse: it felt like an eternity to those caught in what was left of the building, it felt like a race against time for the rescue services yet time slowed for those whom found themselves separated from their families and friends during the chaos of it, not knowing if they’ll ever see them again (alive or dead).

It only took seventeen minutes for the first responders to arrive on scene. Seventeen minutes too long for those whom found themselves stuck under the debris and trapped in the unsteady, burning building.

It was incredible easily hell could manifest itself on Earth, changing and twisting people’s lives irrevocably.

Fay knew a thing or two about how easy it is to lose everything quickly and suddenly, even if at the time of loss, one does not quite register it entirely, because there’s still that wishful thinking it was all just a nightmare. Hearing the confirmation someone you love is dead consolidates that the nightmare is there to stay, but it is the _after_ that kills a person, slowly, inside out even though their heart keeps beating and the world moves on around them.

She had been raised with the knowledge that there’ll be a time when she’ll see horrible things; things that will inevitably break down the innocence and naivety and things that will either harden or break her character. Before the night it all happened, she used to think those events will harden her. Because there was no alternative; she was who she was, and she was _their_ daughter, and she was Fay of Maysoon. Live long enough to become as harsh as the world or bend under its cruelty and it was only natural to think she’d come through on the other side victorious.

She had been ignorant. She had underestimated the horrors of the world because she had only ever read about them in books or; she had been a fool to think that just because she had glimpsed into the darkness, she understood how tenebrous and consuming it could be. _They_ had cast a far too bright shine around her, and she had soaked up in it, thinking when the moment finally came for her to become a woman, _a warrior_ , they’ll guide her just like they always did. They’ll share the darkness they carried in their hearts and the secrets to taming it and they will teach her how to not let it change the fundamental parts of herself, those values and morals that they instilled in her.

Whatever primordial forces ruled the universe, they must have thought she deserved punishment for being so naive. So, they took away that light and left her with all the shadows, testing her mettle. She did not grow stronger; she did not come out on the other end a hero. _She broke._ If _they_ died, the people who should have never died, then how could she possibly even survive that world? Whose other people lesson’s she could listen to if not theirs.

The grief had managed to eat its way through her psychical and mental strength, but some values were so deeply ingrained in her that they might have as well been a part of her cells. No matter what a coward she may have been in many aspects of her life, no matter how weak she thought of herself, there were situations when _their_ teachings shined through still, so bright and powerful that it’d leave her wonder how come she couldn’t find the strength to tap into them all the time. Those moments reminded her of the person whom she used to be, of whom she wanted to be but they also filled her with deep shame because she could not find ways to hang on them, to use them to fight her fears and traumas. Those values sometimes felt like broken pieces of herself she did not know how to glue back together properly, and she feared it was because she _was all wrong_ now, like a vase that’ll never look the same as it used to be. Those teachings and values and principles would eventually trickle out through the cracks like water would in a damaged vase. 

So on that fateful evening, although Fay wasn’t close enough to be affected by the blast, she had been close enough to feel the ground shake underneath her fear, to hear the sound of matter breaking and car alarms going off and screams and to smell the acrid, foul scent.

They were all triggers. Of course, they were. She’s seen and heard and felt _worse_ and it wasn’t the explosion itself but the reminders of that night that triggered her to throw up the dinner she had eaten that day. The panic attack was a tsunami of fear and terror that assaulted and conquered her mind and body and it felt much, much longer than its actual duration of a few minutes. She was only vaguely aware of Bag grabbing her by the sleeve and dragging her back down the street they come from, into a small alleyway away from the people running away, the clouds of dust and the acrid scents. 

When the world came back into focus, she first became aware of how the bracelets had scorched her skin, the runes branding burns in their shape onto her skin. Her skin felt two sizes too small, and the marks resurfaced from under the concealment of like fresh tattoos, making her wonder if they would start bleeding too. It hadn’t happened before, but she had learned to never say never to anything.

The back of her neck and her back were drenched with sweat, and the clothes stuck to her skin uncomfortably, the soft cotton feeling raspy against her sensitive skin. Out on the street people were running in both directions: those who were trying to get away and those who wanted to help or morbidly watch the aftermath of the explosion. She heard sirens echoing in the distance, but her mind felt too foggy to distinguish to which services they belonged to. Ambulances maybe?

With shaky hands she had pulled out her bottle of water and cleaned her wrists, grimacing at the sight of blisters already forming which hurt like hell. She applied some of the cooling gel mixed with salve she kept in a small jar, before wrapping them in fresh gauze. The bracelets fell to her wrists and they brushed against the area uncomfortably, but it was a manageable pain. She used the rest of the water to wash the foul taste in her mouth.

Bag stood by watching her intently, concerned. Fay leaned in to kiss his head and thank him quietly, her mind swirling with self-castigating thoughts and ugly memories. 

_You do not deserve him._

_‘What are you without your paladin, you loser?’_

_I’d be dead without him._

She tied her hair up and removed the loose button up shirt, after raising unsteadily to her feet, leaving the long-sleeved dark top on. 

When they stepped back on the street, the first thing she saw was the crowd of people gathered a few hundred feet down to her left staring at the destroyed building. She had to get closer to see it herself, and she understood their shock when she finally saw the extent of the damage. It looked as if a giant had taken a messy chunk of it, and there were flames devouring what was left of the top of floors, thick rings of dark smoke raising in the air. Firemen had arrived already, their bright yellow uniforms standing out as they lined around the building with hoses in their hands.

She saw a few other firemen trying to help survivors evacuate using tall ladders on the side of the building that was still standing. The flames were spreading quick, but even if the firemen could quell the fire, the tell-tale deep cracks in the building indicated it was not stable. The structure kept shaking intermittently, each movement deepening the cracks and adding to its instability.

The building was going to go down.

The pragmatic – cowardly – side of her screamed that she shouldn’t get involved. Incidents like that happened every day, across the world. Not everyone gets to be saved. It’s life.

“ _Please---please you have to let me in! My son---my son went back in for his dog and I don’t think he came out!’’_

She glanced over to her side and watched as a middle-aged woman was being held back by one of the police officers that had cordoned the crowd using yellow tape. Her body was bent in grief and she was crying hysterically while the officer looked reluctant to hold her back, likely disturbed by the screams that erupted from her throat. Amongst the crowd there were men and women holding their cell phones, filming the tragedy before them while journalists had also taken their microphones, already reporting the incident in front of the cameramen in front of them. The world was already watching, and nobody but the few men in yellow jackets could do anything about it.

No. No, wait.

She saw a tall, dark figure sway through the sky before somersaulting in the air looking as light as bird, before landing gracefully near the area where the firemen were. They did not look surprised by his sudden presence, but instead welcomed the newcomer as he climbed inside the damaged balconies and helped people evacuate, much faster than the firemen did. 

She could not remember what the hero’s name was, but she remembered seeing him in a newspaper. He had blue wings stylised across his chest and arms, the only splash of colour on his otherwise dark attire. Robby was a big fan, because he served as the protector of Bludhaven, the place where he and Dana lived for years before moving inner city. 

More reason she shouldn’t get involved. That world had its heroes and they were clearly ready to act when needed. They certainly did not someone like her to get involved. She’d only get in the way; she’d only end up worrying Bag and she’ll likely end up needing to be saved.

“Rggg…’’ Bag stepped forward suddenly, ears perking up and she glanced at him, before following his gaze to the side of the building that was burning. For a second, she couldn’t see anything through the smoke, but then she saw it. A small shadow moving behind the doors of the balcony on the third floor. Fire had not yet reached there, but it was only a matter of time before it did. If the building didn’t crash until then.

Fay glanced at the crying woman. What if….?

“It’s a boy, isn’t it?’’ Fay murmured. He growled curtly. The woman’s son must’ve been the one on that floor, trapped without exit, scared out of his wits. If the firemen or the Bludhaven protector did not reach him on time, the woman would never be reunited with her son again, just as many other residents there will never see friends and family that were with them at the time of explosion. He’ll die alone in that building, scared, just because he wanted to make sure his pet was not left behind.

Fay looked back to where the firemen and the masked hero were working tirelessly on evacuating everyone. She could alert one of them; the man with wings on his chest was a protector, wasn’t he? It was what he does. She had no idea how warriors there worked like but surely the principle was the same? Risk your life to save the innocent ones? (Not that’s what all warriors were like in her world).

She did try to alert one of the police officers but as soon as he laid his eyes on her he just barked her to step back because it was dangerous.

Perhaps she should have tried harder, screamed at the top of her lungs until someone paid attention.

But instead, she and Bag discreetly slipped away from the crowd, and past the authorities, heading straight for the building.

.

Well. He found Finnegan. 

The pathetic loiter-sack of a man was drugged out in the run-down apartment on the seventh floor when Robin burst in through the window, running any thoughts that he may have gotten away. He wasn’t alone, surrounded by his fellow junkies, most high out of their minds as they laid around in a pigsty of used syringes, dirty clothes and white lines drawn on hard surfaces. Everyone stumbled away as soon as he came through and Finnegan, in his desperation, had tried to use his own girlfriend as a shield, pressing his knife to her throat.

Now that’s not where things took an unexpected turn. Damian had easily incapacitated him, allowing the woman to run away. It was what happened next, in a matter of seconds. It was all it took for Finnegan to swallow whatever he had placed in his mouth and for his body to start contorting into something decidedly not human. His strength and agility were amplified significantly by that sudden metamorphosis and he became----unhinged, feral. There was no logic to his movements, just a desire to tear the Robin apart.

Damian had dodged and ducked easily, and they ended up tearing their way through the apartments on that floor, scaring the poor families and other junkies to evacuate immediately. Finnegan’s pupils and irises were completely black, wide as saucers and his mouth was foaming just like a wild beast; dark, bulging dark veins ramifying over his face and arms. His senses had been heightened and he had temporarily left Damian alone when he sensed a little boy hiding in a small closet clutching his dog, jaws unclenching inhumanly. He was going to tear the boy apart with the hunger of a lion, but Damian ended up toppling both through the wall and out onto the hallway and then---the high-pitched sound.

Finnegan must’ve been carrying the bomb on him all along and in his demented state hadn’t even realized it had started going off in his trousers; he had pushed Finnegan towards the window towards the end of the hall, before he moved quickly back into the apartment to grab the boy whom was just left standing in the bedroom, clutching his equally upset pup.

There was no time to get out and while they were not caught in the blast, that part of the building came crashing down like a house of cards. The room where the boy had been was no more, but thankfully Damian had pulled him into the next room over, shielding both with his cape. 

The last thing he remembers before blacking out was holding the crying boy, whom couldn’t have been older than five, while he clutched on his small howling dog. They living room was enclosed around them although the balcony would have been an effective, easy exit had he not been rapidly losing blood and consciousness.

Even someone in a peak condition such as himself, could not stop the darkness gathering at the edge of his eyes.

.

The shirt wrapped around her mouth and nose was useless in keeping the intoxicating fumes away once they were inside the building which felt about as stable as a cardboard box. Dust scattered from the walls with each tremble, and when Fay glanced up the staircase, she saw the fire spreading at alarming speeds down to that floor. 

She pushed the emergency door closed, although it was bent out of shape, so it would have not stopped the oxygen from fuelling the fire, but it will have given something to eat through first spreading onto the hallway. The building was tilting to one side and the exposed apartments towards the end of the hall looked as if someone had chewed them up then spit them out. She only caught a glimpse of the crowds on the ground over where the floor abruptly ended before Bag warningly pulled her back just as a few more pieces of the wall crumbled away onto the space below. 

“Lead me to him, Bag.’’ Between the absence of lights and the smoke, there was little visibility on those halls. All she could see where shapes, and she tried not to linger on the ones that looked like limbs.

Walking in the opposite direction from where the building abruptly finished, Bag sniffed the air, ears moving like antennas on his head as he tried to pick a lead on the boy. The apartments down that hall looked deceptively untouched but Fay could feel the tremors when she touched the wall.

Apartment 17N.

That’s it. That’s where Bag felt the boy’s scent. The door was blocked, and they couldn’t risk destabilising the structure even more by having Bag trying to push away the rubble. The next apartment over, 19N, however was in a better state, so they stepped inside through the door, the small dark hallway that led into the living room. The wall to their left had crumbled down, and she could see glimpses of the room belonging to 17N.

 _“…hello_?’’ A small voice whimpered. Fay’s heart skipped a breath and she stepped closer to the rubble, trying to speak as close as possible to it so the boy could hear her. “Hey---‘’ She suddenly felt like crying, not sure if out of fear or relief or a combination of both. “Are---are you okay?’’

The boy sobbed. A high-pitched whimper, then small howls. _The dog. He had the dog still._

 _“I-I w-want my mommy!_ ’’ The boy suddenly wailed. _“I don’t—I don’t like this. Where is my mommy?’’_

Fay leaned against the rubble, mouth trembling and breath hitching, as fresh tears spilled down her cheeks. That’s how the children _that_ night cried like too.

That’s how _she_ cried that night too even though she had been older than that boy.

“Ple—please hold on.’’ Fay managed, trying to contain herself. It would not inspire much faith if the boy heard her start bawling harder than he did. “I—I will get you out.’’ Was she now?

“ _Do—do you promise_?’’

No.

Because everyone dies.

Nobody is invincible.

Because the world is cruel and unforgiving, and it doesn’t care.

Because she’s not a hero and not a warrior and not someone who can save anybody. She can’t even help herself most days.

“I promise.’’ Fay wiped her face and stepped back to assess the rubble. There was a small gap on the right-hand side corner; too small for Bag to get through. But she might. She exchanged a look with her paladin, and she could sense he wasn’t comfortable with her going through that hole, but they had no choice. The ground rumbled beneath their feet, the vibrations growing more intense. She wasn’t sure how long they had before the building collapse, but they had to move fast.

There was no time to doubt herself. 

She took off her backpack before carefully climbing over the rubble and through the hole. Climbing and crawling and getting through tricky spots is something she has done all her life, and even as weak as she was, she still had muscle memory. The jungle could be a difficult terrain even for those who had grown up learning it like the back of their hand, after all (and she had been particularly good at it).

When she was finally on the other side, she saw the boy – he looked what? Five or six – clutching a small, white curly dog, perhaps no older than a few months. The boy’s tiny face was dirt, his cheeks wet and his eyes puffy and filled with tears. He stared at her with fearful big brown eyes and Fay wasn’t sure how to react when he suddenly rushed to attach himself to her waist.

Well, she felt like crying again. But she didn’t. That boy was counting on her, he had looked up at her as if she was his lifeline and she _was_.

She had to do everything she could to get them out of there. _At all costs._ Her fears did not matter in that moment, they could torture her after all they wanted once she knew the boy was safe and sound.

“ _Ngn_ …’’ Startled Fay glanced over her shoulder, at the other body with them in that room. Greens and reds and yellow—the boy’s suit had them all, albeit faded under the layers of dust and grime he was covered in. He seemed to be struggling to remain conscious and when he tilted his head slightly to the side, Fay saw the wet, matted hair. Drops of blood mixing in with the dust on the floor. His head was injured.

No, not just his head.

He had a deep cut the left-hand side of his hip, bleeding profusely, staining his peculiar outfit and gradually forming a pool underneath his waist.

Green, red and yellow. A yellow cape. He was too a protector.

Batman’s partner…. what was his name?

Robin.

That was Robin? A child?

So what? She was no stranger to people becoming soldiers early on in their life. Why would that world be any different in that regard? 

“He—he saved me from the bad man.’’ The boy sniffed, following her gaze, but refusing to let go of her.

Fay wasn’t sure who the ‘bad man’ was but she encouraged the boy up the rubble and through the small gap. Fay reassured him the ‘scary dog’ was there to help when the boy almost backtracked upon seeing Bag stand on the other side.

“Bag.’’ Fay called towards the hole, knowing he could hear her perfectly alright, even if she hadn’t. “There’s someone else. They’re injured---I am going to try to move him.’’ He chittered in response, and she heard his claws scratch onto the rubble on the other hand. Hurry, he was likely trying to convey. She couldn’t feel his emotions in that moment, but she knew him well enough to understand the noises he made.

Fay stepped over to the boy, careful not to trip on anything and after some hesitation, she kneeled behind his head. She saw his forehead crease as he tried to lift his head up, but to no avail; the mask hid his expression but judging from the gritted teeth, he had to have been in a lot of pain.

“I—I am sorry.’’ She wasn’t sure what she was apologising for, but she didn’t want him to think she was attacking him. It’s dangerous to startle a warrior when they’re in a vulnerable state, after all. She had no idea how dangerous he was, but she didn’t want to risk it. “I am going to help you stand up.’’ She said softly, before she reached under his shoulders to wrap her arms around his chest. She had no time to check for any other injuries and desperately hope she wasn’t causing him more damage by moving him around.

He was slim but between the lean muscles she felt underneath her arms and his armour, he was rather heavy. It did not help he could not keep himself upright, although to his credit, not for a lack of trying. He was rather determined the way he kept trying to steady himself with that head injury and the amount of blood he had lost from his side. Many other people would have already blacked out entirely or would have given in due to the pain.

He wasn’t most people, though, was he? Although she did not know anything about how a person became a warrior in that world, it would have had to include many the elements in the training in her world. Including developing a higher resistance to pain. 

_Not everyone gave up as easily as she would._

She was able to wrap one of his arms around her shoulders while she slid one of hers around his uninjured side, before pulling him toward the hole. Her lips pursued as she regarded the hole – getting him through there in his state was going to be difficult if not impossible. She could end up worsening his injuries. She glanced towards her left, where the balcony doors were, blocked by tall shelf that had fallen on its side. The boy must have been trying to move it when Fay spotted him earlier. He wouldn’t have had the strength, but she might. _She had to._

Still propping the protector against herself, she called out to her paladin. “Bag! I am going to use the balcony. You---‘’ She licked her lips. “You need to get the boy out of here.’’

Bag whined. Absolutely not. Of course, he wasn’t going to agree to leaving her behind. Fay did not want to part ways with him, either. She certainly could not navigate her way back without him but if he waited on her, none of them might not make it out.

“Please.’’ Her voice was raspy, and her vision blurred, whether because of the smoke or new tears gathering in her eyes, she wasn’t sure. “ _Please_ , Bag. I---I promise I will be fine.’’ The paladin started pacing, she could hear his heavy paws going back and forth. “We can’t move any of the rubble here, not when the building is so unstable. If you wait on me, none of us---none of us will get out.’’ She hated her how her voice trembled. “If you get him out---I can call for help. From the balcony.’’

The paladin fell silent, but she heard him pace back and forth behind the wall. 

It was settled then. 

“Hey---Hey, little boy.’’ Fay called to the boy, feeling awkward for not having at least asked for his name. “My---my dog will get out of here, okay? He will take you to your---your mommy.’’

“ _W-what? No---I can’t—please. Don’t leave me alone._ ’’

“Everything is going to be alright.’’ Fay said through gritted teeth, ignoring the tears that insistent on falling down from her eyes. “My dog is very good at helping people. You want to get outside, right? To see your mom again?’’

 _“…yes.’’_ The boy sniffled again. The dog in his arms whimpered again. Both, such young innocent creatures, the darkness of the world trying to devour them.

“Okay.’’ Fay nodded, although he couldn’t see her. “So, get on his back, okay? Hold on tight, on both. You’ll be out of here in no time.’’

“ _W-w-what ab-about you?’’_

“I will be just fine. I need to help Robin, okay?’’

It didn’t matter if she didn’t fully believe those words, or if she wasn’t going to be alright. The boy would be reunited with his mother. She would not have to spend the rest of her life mourning. Bag would be alive too. He’ll be devastated and lost and alone in that world, but _he’d be alive_. She heard the boy shift, likely on the back of her paladin, whose emotions she could feel reverberating even through that wall much clearer now. He was purposefully projecting and underneath the frustration and concern, she felt his affection. She didn’t say anything because she couldn’t trust herself—if she had opened her mouth, she would have ended up begging him to stay and that would have been unacceptable. 

He was silent when he left but she heard the boy squeals as the paladin carried him out of the apartment; he must have been startled by just how fast her ‘dog’ was.

She hadn’t noticed the boy regaining consciousness briefly before blacking out again, but she did set him gently against the rubble. Bag would have taken her backpack, so whatever first aid kit she had inside was now gone. _She should have thought of that. Idiot._ Using the adrenaline rush in her veins, she had moved the fallen furniture away and tried to open the balcony doors. They were jammed.

_If I had been stronger as I used to be, that wouldn’t have been an issue._

With the shirt from around her mouth and nose, wrapped around her right hand, she had punched the glass. It was humiliating how many times she had to do it, how the criticising voice at the back of her head was right. In the past, getting out of that building wouldn’t have been such a difficult task. She could have helped more than just a person (she didn’t count the boy, because that was all Bag).

The glass shattered and her knuckles ached, and sharp fragments stuck to her uncomfortably, but she paid it no mind. Throwing the shirt away on the floor, she turned towards the boy, to see him up on his feet, albeit unsteadily, one hand clutching his injured side and the other his head. When he started swaying on his feet, Fay rushed to support him, grabbing his arm again to sling it around her shoulders.

The floor started shaking violently under their feat and objects clattered, dust fell down their heads and the building creaked ominously; she moved both towards the balcony and outside. A helicopter was circling above their heads, shining its light above the crowd below, the firefighters and near to where they were standing. Nobody would see them with all the smoke and fire that had now moved just above their heads; she could feel the heat beat down and the fumes starting to clog her eyes and lungs.

With some relief however, she saw Bag’s shadow move into the courtyard before, approaching one of the firemen with the boy clutching his bag. He was carrying her backpack in his teeth and as soon as the boy unmounted, he had glanced up at them. She could not see his expression or feel his emotion, but she imagined the terror and concern he felt at seeing her trapped up there.

The boy shifted with a small groan, and he reached with his free hand to tap onto the round yellow patch on his chest which Fay realized, acted as a communicator.

“Nightwing. Third floor, balcony.’’ He said gruffly.

“ _Copy that.’’_

A few moments later the dark-suited man – _Nightwing, that was it. That’s what Robby had called him too_ – had appeared hanging from the side of the building. He was wearing a mask like Robin, but his expression was easier to read; he smiled at her kindly when he saw them.

“Um,…hi.’’ Bravo, Fay. Bravo.

Robin pulled his arm from around her shoulders and stepped aside, as Nightwing gestured her to grab onto his hand. She reluctantly did so, and he pulled her against him; then they were _flying._ Not quite, no. But he moved through the air as effortless as she had seen him earlier, as if her weight meant nothing, even as little as she weight. She wasn’t scared of heights, but she had instinctively wrapped her arms around his waist. He was warm and solid and--- _safe._

That was dangerous. Perceiving someone as safe.

They landed on the rooftop of one of the adjoining buildings and she almost immediately broke apart, not liking the way he had suddenly reminded her of _him_. He must’ve thought it was because she had been scared from the way he swayed them from one building to another, because he smiled at her again – what a charming, blinding smile – and asked her if she was okay.

“What---what about—‘’

Robin landed a few moments later next to them using a similar grapping hook and wire that Nightwing had with her.

“Are you okay, Robin?’’ She could hear the man’s concern as he turned to regard the boy, whom sneered in return. “Just worry about the people in the building. I will be just fine.’’ He did not look fine. As soon as his partner jumped away again, Robin’s legs buckled under him and he ended up kneeling, spine arched and one fist propping him up.

“I, um,--‘’ She fidgeted. “Is there anything I can do?’’

_Of course not. I stayed to help him, and his partner ended up helping me._

The boy seemed to share that same irritation she felt suddenly with herself, because he glanced up at her and even with his domino mask on, she could tell the look he was giving her was not a nice one.

“That was stupid of you.’’ He hissed. “You could have died.’’

“Um, I—‘’ her hand ached. Looking down she saw the skin already purpling around her knuckles, the blood crusting beneath her fingernails. “You could have died too.’’ She mumbled nervously.

Her life did not matter more than his.

A howl.

Fay jerked, heart soaring at the sound of her paladin. She would have recognized that sound anywhere and it was coming from around the building they’d been left standing on. Robin’s partner would surely make sure he got the medical attention he needed, Fay thought as her eyes fell down the fire exit staircase on the side of the building, behind them. She couldn’t stay there. They might start asking questions she could not respond; or ask the healers to look at her.

With one final glance at the boy, she turned on her feet and started running towards the fire exit.

“ _Wait---!‘_ ’

Once at the edge of the building she climbed down the stairs without looking back, before landing on the metallic staircase not unlike the one that she used every day to get to the dance studio. Bag was waiting for her at the bottom of those stairs, backpack hanging from his mouth which he let fall in favour of rushing up to meet her halfway.

She couldn’t help the sobs that left her throat when she finally was able to hug him and nuzzle him. His fur was coated in dust and he smelt of smoke, but he had no injuries other than perhaps the one she’d caused by asking him to leave her behind.

“I am so sorry.’’ She gushed. “I am sorry I had to ask you that.’’ Pulling away slightly she kissed his forehead. “Thank you for saving him, Bag. Now, let’s get out of here.’’ She grabbed her backpack and then they took off down the streets, with no real direction but a burning desire to put as much as possible between them and the masked protectors and the burning building. She only stopped temporarily when she heard the building collapse in the distance and watched as a cloud of dust and smoke rose high up to the sky with renewed strength.

Bag growled at her. He didn’t want them to stop, not yet. So, they started running again.

Together, side by side. As it was meant to be. 

.

Damian didn’t go after her.

He didn’t need to. He had recognized her already. It was the girl from the museum.

It shouldn’t have mattered. He had no business with a civilian, especially one that caught him in such a revoltingly weak moment.

But.

She risked her life for him, even as recklessly as she did.

‘ _My life doesn’t matter more than yours.’_


	3. Proposals, stalkers and guilt

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Edit: Chapter split into two.

_“In your life you meet people. Some you never think about again. Some, you wonder what happened to them. There are some that you wonder if they ever think about you. And then there are some that you wish you never have to think about again. But you do.”_

_― C.S. Lewis_

.

.

.

_16 th of August _

The day after the explosion was, shockingly, not a Bad Day.

After leaving the area in a rush the previous night, they didn’t go to the attic directly but made a detour to the 24/7 gym where Fay washed herself quickly. With the adrenaline rush finishing, she was in significant pain because of her hand but she wanted to get all the dust and blood off her. In addition to her badly bruised knuckles, the glass had left her with several cuts, enough to draw blood but not enough to have damaged nerves (as far as she could tell) or require stitches. Once back in the relative safety of the attic, she had almost instantaneously fallen asleep as soon as she laid down on the mattress, Bag curled against her back and the dog and ferret at her legs. The cat rarely ever slept with them, but she had heard it meow somewhere above her head.

She woke up right after dawn but had stayed in her fort because that day she was meant to be off anyway. She felt exhausted and the painkillers she had brought with her from her world had made her feel drowsy, her mind awake but not alert.

Dana came to find her around lunch time, as she usually did when Fay didn’t show up in the morning. Even when she had no shift, the girl and her paladin would always go by to say hi and grab one of the pastries Mack would always bring in. The woman’s gentle voice and warm hand against her head reminded her too much of _her_ , so Fay lied that she had eaten something bad which made her sick, pulling the sheet up to her neck to hide the bandages, and hoping the woman would go away quickly. 

She felt guilty for that thought soon after, when Dana kindly fed her furry companions (Bag didn’t eat, he preferred to just lie down next to her) from the small used fridge she now owned, where she generally stored their food. Then she was left alone to her devices.

Around three in the afternoon, with the painkillers wearing off, an aching hand and feeling jittery, Fay decided Bag needed – _and deserved_ \- a bath. Heading down to the soup kitchen where Mack greeted her cheerfully and Robby asked her if she was feeling better, “ _I am fine, thank you. Just ate a bad sandwich’’,_ she grabbed the hose, connected it to one of the sinks and set to wash her paladin in the narrow street.

His antics, once again, relaxed her and took her mind off away from the psychical pain or insidious thoughts. He mischievously grabbed the hose and splashed her before making her chase him around in circles, trying to escape her when it was time to get his fur rinsed. The afternoon improved after that, although at the back of her mind she still worried that one of those masked protectors would track them down to ask her questions. There was also the matter of not being able to return to the museum which was one more reason for her heart to ache.

Partially soaked and feeling lighter, she had cleaned the area before putting the hose back to its rightful place. She accepted Mack’s fresh banana bread, and then Dana asked her if she wanted to accompany her out for some chores around town. Some air might do her good, the woman said. Fay had been tempted to say no but ultimately didn’t because she knew she had to buy groceries herself and it’d have been selfish to keep Bag locked in that small, cramped space the entire day just because she preferred wallowing in self-pity instead. There were enough of those days already. Plus, having time to think about things might just trigger a panic attack.

They went to different places across town: visiting a potential new distributor for kitchen supplies, the bank, a frustrating visit to city council. Dana had explained that the soup kitchen received a monthly grant via angel investors through a charity foundation, but the money was always transferred late, the amount never quite matching what it should have been and it was because the _‘council always found a way to keep their share, greedy bastards’_. 

Fay remained quite as she and Dana as they one of the cubicles on the second floor, an hour after waiting in the hall. The woman in front of them did not look like she enjoyed her job. She had an unpleasant attitude too and she had barely looked up from the screen as Dana politely explained that their latest grant was late by a week and they had no forewarning which meant that she had to cover costs from her own pocket.

Dana’s irritation increased throughout the meeting, rightfully so. The woman wasn’t listening properly, made Dana repeat herself several times, then was quite flippant saying she could not control what rich people did with their money. Then she told Dana that she had to fill in another form, despite having filled four more previously, but this one was apparently different because it needs to be sent digitally to ‘senior management’. Fay had a feeling the woman behind the desk just wanted to get rid of them. The entire appointment made Fay think about Maysoon, and the charities there and how they used to deal with them, and she couldn’t help but wonder if people had the same difficulty obtaining financial help. Surely not. Her homeland was known for having minimal unemployment rate and no homelessness.

Right?

They left the city council at a rushed pace with Dana mumbling profanities all the way through which was slightly amusing (and it also hurt a bit, because she knew of another woman whom expressed herself just as colourfully when she was angry). Their final trip was to an immense supermarket several miles from where the soup kitchen was and Fay vowed to return to it later because there was just _so much_ to look at. The downside was that they had to leave Bag waiting at the entrance as with any other building. Fay grabbed extra packs of meat and apples and sweet ice to make sure she could spoil him that evening, before awkwardly setting them in Dana’s cart, careful to keep them separate.

She had done the same when they arrived at the checkout and placed the items on the conveyor belt, but the woman insisted for the cashier to count everything on the same bill, despite Fay’s protests. She had seen how upset the woman looked whenever she did expense reports and clearly the city council was not going to be of any help, financially. Dana shot her a look that silenced Fay’s protests immediately and replaced them with an embarrassed thank you (she made a mental note to hide some money in the woman’s purse next chance she got).

Fay didn’t have the courage to go exploring Gotham that night, but it wasn’t much of a problem. Her attic felt comforting between the soft glow of fairy lights, the snacks spread around them and her companions. Tucked inside the fort with Bag and the other strays sleeping around her, she had made a list of which items she should buy next time she went to the supermarket before picking up a new book to read.

That day had been almost good enough to make up for the previous one.

For her, it was enough.

.

.

.

_19 th of August _

She had visited the museum at least twelve times since the beginning of August, for an average of six hours. Every two hours, she’d exit the museum for fifteen to twenty minutes before returning and picking up where she left. It was to check on her dog hidden behind the tree that grew close to the building, separated by the small fence around the park. She’d give him water, and apples (?) and she’d converse with him as if he was a human being, showing him the map of the museum and pointing out which rooms she had visited, what she saw, what she learned.

She worked at the soup kitchen on Jubilee street, mid-town Gotham. Not an affluent area, but not particularly poor either. The soup kitchen owner and the cooks behaved with familiarity with her and seemed to have taken under their wing, offering her food and allowing her to hide in the attic of the building. The attic which she shared with other stray animals. She had creatively turned the narrow space into a practical area with a variety of items she had likely scavenged or stolen or had been donated by Dana Mercher. She had at least forty books organised in towers; eclectic tastes. He identified the genres based off on some of the titles: fiction and history and philosophy and travel.

She walked everywhere with that giant wolf-like dog of hers and people would give them wide berth. No wonder no one had tried to accost a small girl like herself…yet. She knew that part of Gotham well and in the days, he’s been observing her, she had walked hours around the city doing various chores. Yuri Zuraite, the Russian-Polish owner of the meat shop in the vicinity of the soup kitchen, took obvious advantage that she was a homeless child with little financial means. He made her deliver within a two-mile radius because it must’ve been cheaper. Being a child, he did not have to pay her, and she could not have done a thing about it. She was good at running and he watched her zig zag through the streets and deliver the chilled packages to several different blocks within the timeframe imposed on her.

Yuri gave her ten dollars and one kilo of meat which Damian doubted was entirely fresh, but just good enough to be served on the day. She’d always check it before giving to her dog.

Ah. So, she did all that work to ensure her dog ate.

She was a sneaky thing, too. He watched her and that beast of a dog trespass the campus of the Academy and after some tries, sneaking through a window she found open. Not to steal anything, though, even if there were plenty of items that could have been pawned off for a small fortune. The musical instruments and the golden trophies alone would have made her thousands. Instead, she only seemed to have two interests: the girls’ locker room which she presumably used to shower because she had come out with wet hair and fresh clothes and _the library_.

She’d sat there in the darkness with a flashlight reading for hours. The dog would sometimes instigate games, snatching her book and making her chase him around the room. She left right after dawn, and he watched her walk back to the soup kitchen, where she climbed up the fire exit, to the dance studio and then pulled herself inside the attic. She’d let the small dog out to climb down and go for his needs waiting for him to return before closing the hatch.

She did not sleep that night. An hour later they climbed back down and using keys Mercher must have given her she accessed the kitchen through the back exit where she set to clean it thoroughly. She worked there continuously until early afternoon, after which she finally slept two hours. Not enough; not for a growing child. Nightmare-induced insomnia perhaps?

Even though the weather was in the mid to high twenties during day, she always wore long-sleeve tops. Most of her clothes were oversized. He had watched her roll up her sleeves once in the safety of the attic, revealing the white bandages that she had wrapped from her knuckles all the way to her elbows. He doubted that was the only thing she wanted to hide under the unnecessary layers of clothes. 

Yet as uncomfortable as she looked sometimes because of the heat, and even though her hand clearly ached, she did not complain once, she did not make it obvious she was wounded, and she had not backed down from any of the chores she had in those days. She was disciplined. 

The girl was of nervous disposition, and certain elements seemed to trigger the anxieties: loud noises, large crowds, people stepping in her personal bubble (he had watched the way her face tightened when Dana ruffled her hair or when the cook – Paul Maverick – pulled her into a bear hug). She was incredibly attached to the dog whom returned that connection, and she was most talkative around him (he would also label it a coping mechanism in the mental file he had on her).

She had no connection to the building that exploded. The probability that she had been there at the wrong place and time was high. All the observations he made in the days he monitored her pointed to an introverted, nervous person whom preferred to maintain a low profile. rather easily triggered by certain stimuli. That burning building and its surroundings would have been the worst place someone like her could have been.

Yet she ran inside it, risked her life because she somehow knew there was someone who needed help. The dog had to have been the one to guide her. She had a strong emotional connection to _Bag_ (what a ridiculous name), perhaps her only one, but she had been willing to stay behind, to potentially never see her companion again just to help him.

The balcony had been a good idea and she had shown surprising determination in breaking the glass, again, with little regard to any injuries she may incurred. The building did not collapse dramatically within seconds after they left it. In fact, it wasn’t until nine minutes later that it did. Grayson would have found him and the boy long before it happened, so her thoughtless display of heroism wouldn’t have been necessary. 

She hadn’t done it out of arrogance or for glory though; she had been frightened to be in there. He saw the tears; he heard the raw emotions in her voice when she begged her dog to leave her behind, even as out of it as he was. She had been shaking, too but she refused to let go of him. She was a thin thing; he would have been heavy for her to hold especially with his suit on. She held on with a determination that bellied her frightful nature.

She put all sense of self-preservation away to rescue a masked stranger whom should have been saving her instead.

_‘My life doesn’t matter more than yours.’_

.

.

.

_20 th of August_

After her shift at the soup kitchen, they headed to the museum, where she intended to explore the Asian art and antiquities section. As soon as she stepped through, the enthusiasm she felt died out instantly. The hair at the back of her stood up, her instincts recognizing something was off even if she couldn’t identify it immediately.

One of the security guards checked her bag and then told her to head to the woman behind the desk. _That didn’t happen before._ Fay had reluctantly done so and was further confused when the woman smiled at her and told her to wait. With increasing trepidation, she watched as the woman pressed a number on the phone, before lifting the receiver to speak to whoever was on the other end.

“Yes, sir. She is standing right here. Shall I send her over?’’

Send her? Send her where?

Absolutely _not_.

Fay instinctively stepped back from the desk, panic making her heartbeat so fast she would have probably felt the muscle in that area contract. She had gone there too many times, hadn’t she? She had seen other children there, but rarely ever unaccompanied and none of them would have come across as fixated with visiting as she was. Or maybe it was the many times she kept going back and forth down those halls, in and out to check on Bag.

Her heart started pounding faster, and her mouth dried as a dark thought settled in her mind.

What if they thought she was trying to steal something? She did not look homeless, but she looked haggard enough for people to draw conclusions about her financial means. They probably thought she had been scanning the place, learning it inside out so she’d know how to get away with theft. She did not have anything incriminating in her bag except--- _her journal and the museum map._ She had taken so many notes of that place it was impossible for anyone not to consider it suspicious. Their first thought will not be ‘she’s from another world so she’s just trying to educate herself’.

It would be ‘this poorly dressed, hungry looking and nervous child is planning to steal something’.

Crap. How had she not thought of that before? How alarming it must have looked for the guards, for the woman at the reception, for whoever was monitoring those cameras to see her return so many times.

_I am such an idiot._

“Wait—‘’ The woman’s smile faded when she realized what Fay was doing. “Where are you going? Hey—just wait a second.’’

The woman was too damn loud. A few visitors turned to look at them curiously and to make matters worse, she caught the attention of one of the guards as well. As she whirled on her feet to head back out, she came face to face with the one that checked her bag – _Ross,_ his name tag said – whom did not have a threatening stance but in that moment her brain instantly labelled him as an enemy. He made the mistake to try and touch her, his hand reaching for her shoulder. 

As out of shape she may have been, she still had her reflexes and given she hadn’t had a panic attack recently, she had recently slept better which meant she was more alert. She didn’t think, just acted, grabbing the man’s hand, twisting and then reaching to bend his arm, from the elbow, at an unnatural but painful angle with her other hand, bringing him to his knees almost immediately.

When she realized what she’d done, she instantly let him go, hands raised slightly. “I—I am so sorry.’’ She whispered, horrified because she hadn’t meant to cause him pain.

People were staring now, crowding in. She didn’t look at them, but she could hear the whispers. She always heard the whispers.

The other guard in charge with checking bags had started walking in her direction, hands up in placation although with him she saw the tension in his body. She did not like the sight of that baton hanging on the side of his belt, either.

“Hey, kid. Calm down.’’

She did not feel calm. Not when she had just made a scene by taking down a man twice her size, and when she could hear another guard approach from behind betrayed by the jingle of the keys on his belt. She ducked quickly leaving the man to grab empty air and rotating on her feet she rolled her body away from his reach, before straightening and starting to run for the doors, giving the other guard a wide berth. He tried to intercept her and grab her as well, but she changed her pace abruptly and gyrated past him, leaving him to stumble in a very graceful manner before falling flat on his face.

Someone from her impromptu audience laughed. 

She pushed the revolving door so forcefully she forced one of the visitors to quickly exit it or risk getting trampled. She wasn’t sure he cared she had yelled ‘ _sorry!_ ’ but she didn’t stop to find out, because as soon as she was outside, she turned to the left in the direction of the park. Bag must’ve sensed her distress because he stepped out into the street even before she reached his point and although he looked confused, he sprinted after her when she didn’t stop.

She ran all the way back to the soup kitchen. When she arrived there, she leaned forward, propping her hands on her knees as she tried to regain her breath. The sandwich she had earlier came back up her throat violently, and she ended up vomiting onto the pavement below. 

The backdoor of the soup kitchen opened. 

“Fay?’’ Dana called, concern colouring her voice. “Are you okay? What happened?’’

Fay tried to straighten up, but her body convulsed again, and she ended up doubling over even harder as she vomited again.

Walking up to her, the woman placed a warm hand on her back, rubbing soothing circles and murmuring encouraging words. That comforting gesture was enough to make her come undone and ruin her recent cry-free lucky streak.

“I---I did something bad.’’ Fay rasped, agitatedly when she was finally able to speak. “ _I did something bad!_ ’’ Was she screaming? She was. 

’ _I am sorry. I am so sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt them---please believe me, uncle.’_

_‘I didn’t mean to lose control. It won’t happen again!’_

She agitatedly tried to explain that she went to the museum and how woman wanted to send her somewhere and she hurt a guard, but she didn’t mean to. Then all rational thoughts went out of the window and they were replaced by panic-fuelled ones, which in turn made her blabber frantically. What if they came after her? What if they found out she was homeless, and she lived in an attic? What if they arrested her? What if they took Bag away? With each sentence she found it harder to breath, as if an invisible claw was gradually closing around her lungs, stopping them from inflating properly. 

Dana placed her hands on her shoulder, but this time Fay didn’t react like she had with the guard. She was too busy trying to remember how to breathe properly (and deep down she knew Dana would never hurt her).

“ _Fay!’’_

Fay closed her mouth, her ragged breath filling the silence that followed. She shamefully stared at the ground, vision blurring with tears. 

“Everything is going to be okay.’’

_‘Everything is going to be okay, my little fey.’_

**Liar.**

When Fay refused to tilt her head up, the woman removed her hands from her shoulders and crouched down in front of her. “I will help you, okay? I won’t allow them to take you away or Bag.’’

“You---you don’t know that.’’ Fay sniffed. Because the woman really didn’t; she meant well, and she would have indeed helped Fay if it came down to it. Dana, however, had issues of her own---if Fay did get arrested or taken in by Child Services, she’d end up just being a burden.

The woman waited until her sobs have reduced to quite sniffles before speaking again.

“Do you want to know why I’ve helped you? Why I own a soup kitchen?’’

“Be—because you’re kind?’’

Dana smiled ruefully. “Because I used to be you. Lonely and a bit lost, that is.’’ The woman tentatively reached to wipe the tears away from her cheeks but when Fay flinched, she immediately lowered her hand. Dana was like that; tentative but never forceful. She always knew when to step back and she never questioned Fay’s reticence to allowing people to touch her. “My mother left home when I was really young, and my father used to take it out on me.’’ Dana continued calmly, although it must have been a very hurtful memory to reminisce. “So, when I was about your age, I decided to run away. I didn’t last very long, I wasn’t quite as resourceful as you nor I had a loyal, loving dog to protect me.’’

Bag pushed his head under Fay’s head, and she looked down at his pale gaze. His affection was bright and warm, and it reverberated through her, loosening the knot of nerves in her stomach. It was starting to get easier to breathe again.

“One of the neighbours two floors down took me in. She’d allow me to sleep in her home and she’d cook me meals and she’d keep me out of trouble.’’ Dana said. “It wasn’t just me, though. Even though she did not have much money herself, she used a lot of it in cooking meals for other people in the neighbourhood. We lived in a poor area, so I wasn’t the only one starving.’’

Feeling much calmer, despite her irritated eyes and new headache, Fay finally looked up to meet her gaze. “Is—is that why you opened the soup kitchen?’’

The woman smiled. “Yes, exactly. If it hadn’t been for Gram-gram’s kindness, who knows where I would have ended up. She encouraged me to study and do something with my future. It may have taken me a bit of time to get here, but I’ve always wanted to find a way to pay forward her kindness. So, I ended up opening Soul Bowl. It’s not much and some days it can be very frustrating, but you’ve seen all the people that come through, right?’’ Fay nodded. “Well, for some of them that hot bowl of soup and socialising with others who understand them is _it_. The only good thing in their lives. They may never experience something better.’’ 

Yet Fay had a warm attic, now filled with so many things it might have as well been a home, even if she refused referring to it as such. She had a safe space, and a secret emergency stash of money and a potential way out, back to her home, where she had everything. At least materially speaking.

She had made a choice by being there, living in those conditions. The men and women that came through Dana’s soup kitchen didn’t. Yet it was her that Dana had been generous most with. It was sickening. Someone else – _more deserving_ \- could have been in that attic instead of her. Some other child, one that had run away from home because they were being neglected or abused, not because they were too afraid to face their own failures.

“I don’t know your story, Fay.’’ Dana admitted. “But I think you’re a kid who saw more than she should have. I think you are dealing with a lot inside and maybe that’s why you’re so quiet and _that’s okay_. If you want to talk about it, I am happy to listen. If you don’t, then that’s also okay. I will help you if you need it. I don’t believe in many things in this shitty world, but I do believe in being kind and helping others if you are able to do so.’’

 _She_ did too.

The woman raised to her feet, and gently nudged Fay towards the kitchen. Bag stood glued to her hip, allowing Fay to dig her hands onto his fur because she found it therapeutic. Not that he didn’t enjoy it. 

“Dana?’’ Fay stopped right before the small step. The woman had already stepped inside, and she turned to look at Fay, attentive.

“What---what if someone doesn’t deserve kindness?’’ Fay’s breath hitched; her throat restricted by a vice of emotions. “What if some people are where they are because of their own actions?’’

Dana looked surprised at the question, but then crossed her arms, lips pursuing as she seemed to contemplate it. After a few seconds, she shrugged. “Some people won’t deserve it. Some people are unforgivable.’’ Fay’s chest felt tight again. “That doesn’t mean I shouldn’t help people, though. I don’t know what everyone that came through my soup kitchen did in their life. Maybe some of them do deserve their fate. Or maybe some of them will learn what good is and they will pay it forward. Someone once told me that I shouldn’t assume another person is undeserving as that’ll inevitably make kindness a selective process that too many people use. If a person ends up proving undeserving, then I can decide to stop being kind.’’

Fay nodded. It didn’t quite answer her question, but she understood what Dana meant. Kindness could be a double-edged sword sometimes. She’d know.

“Whatever brought you here, Fay---‘’ She looked up at the woman in alarm. “You are too young to let it define you. You are clever and you are kind and you are honest. You are one of the most hard-working individuals I met. I’ve never once thought you were undeserving of my kindness. On the contrary, I wish I could do more for you.’’

Fay looked away, feeling tears brimming again. She wanted to believe Dana, but she had no idea whom Fay was, whom she had been before she came to that world, _what she had done_. If she knew the truth, Fay was willing to bet she’d have changed her opinion very quickly. In a way, she was taking advantage of the woman’s kindness by allowing her to perceive Fay as someone she was not (someone deserving). 

Survival, she had called it in her first weeks in Gotham, but it no longer was just that. Not when she lived relatively comfortably, not when she had places, she enjoyed visiting, people she had inadvertently started to care about. Dana, Mack, Robby. She wanted them to like her, she wanted them to be happy and for the soup kitchen to be successful.

“How about you and Bag get inside? I’ll get Mack to get you some toast and you need some liquids in you, pronto.’’

Fay and her paladin stepped inside, letting the door close behind them.

It was bad getting attached to that place, she thought. Because she was starting to see it more than just a shelter, than just survival. And it won’t last.

Sooner or later she’ll have to leave Gotham.

The attic and the soup kitchen and Dana’s kindness and the museum and Gotham Academy will all be a thing of the past.

.

The staff members of Gotham Museums were imbeciles. 

Only idiots would scare a child in running away like that.

However, it had been interesting to watch the way she reacted. _She knew how to defend herself._ Well enough to react quickly, without hesitation. She didn’t need force or strength; she had known exactly where to press to incapacitate the guard despite being a bigger opponent. 

Tch. The guard earned the sprained wrist. He should have read her body language; it was obvious she was scared, thinking she must be in trouble. Damian had specifically told the receptionist not to alarm the girl; just let her know that she could wait in the hall and reassure her it was for a good reason. She had reacted like a wild animal being threatened to be put in a cage. He couldn’t fault her, although his interest was certainly piqued now (it had been rather entertaining watching the other two guards make fools of themselves).

How did a homeless, anxious and timid girl such as herself knew self-defence techniques?

Well, he wasn’t going to find out at the museum. She was never going to come back there after that incident, no matter how much she enjoyed it.

“— _Tt_ —". It was no use. He was going to get to her in other ways. Given she was a flight risk, he’ll have to make sure he’d do so in an environment she’d find less hostile. 

(He was curious to find out what other surprises she would reveal.) 

.

.

.

_21 st of August _

She had three orders to deliver that day, all located within a half mile of one another but around five miles from the meat shop, past the soup kitchen and into the upper part of Gotham. While that area was a fresh change, clean and affluent, it was also more crowded, but a longer delivery distance meant that Mr. Yuri will be giving her more meat. She’d have to deal with her apprehension of crowds if it meant spoiling Bag and the other strays.

The various sized chilled packaging was handed to her in an insulated bag and she was told she had two hours to finish even though the polystyrene boxes filled with gel packs and dry ice would last at least several hours, even in the twenty-five-degree weather. Mr. Yuri liked to make an impression on his customers especially the ones that lived in the wealthier area (he also liked putting her under pressure, so there’s that).

Public transportation was out of question. Buses were often crowded; they triggered her anxieties and Bag was unlikely to be allowed to board unless he was in a carrier. She wasn’t sure how she’d carry him even if she wanted to put him in one (or whether she’d find such a big one). So, instead Fay would shove as many of the chilled packaging into her large backpack, ensuring they were properly cushioned and secured so they would not open or get damaged while she moved. That day she had forced herself to eat a bit more than just scraps to have more energy, so she hoped she would not end up feeling unwell before finishing the deliveries.

Between studying the map of Gotham and previous deliveries, they’d learned which areas they should avoid, and which shortcuts were most effective. Bag’s keen senses generally meant he took the lead because he’d be able to warn her if he sensed something was off. 

She no longer had the stamina or strength she once had but running had a therapeutic effect on her. Emotional pain converted in miles and she felt something akin to power to being able to leave buildings and shops and people behind her like that. She felt free.

So, they ran. It took them about forty minutes which was an embarrassing time, but she tried not to allow the negative thoughts ruin how light she felt. For Bag the distance had not been anywhere a challenge, but he enjoyed running by her side, so he was happy altogether. Mr. Kilner whom owned a small but busy bagel shop was the first on her list and after stepping past the glass doors, she glided through the occupied tables and walked up to the counter. She handed him the boxes that had his initials written on them. Mr. Kilner liked charging more for the bagels that he made using Mr. Yuri’s meat because of their quality. Fay didn’t think it was right to charge five dollars for one, but she chose not to make her opinions known. She was just the messenger, after all. 

Two streets down she had Mr. Fitzwilliam’s bookshop which she had visited in her free time and almost never left empty handed, even if with used books most times. She liked him because he always gave Bag water to drink, which he did that day too. Mr. Fitzwilliam always ordered on a weekly basis, so his order was generally the heaviest, but she didn’t mind. Whenever she’d manage to get to those parts and visit his shop, he’d always talk to her about new books he brought in, either old or new and if she had time, he’d invite _both_ in. His was one of the few places Bag was accepted.

Her last destination was a new one. Mr. Yuri had initially refused to let her have the order but the real delivery service he used for long-distance or ‘his best clients’ (another way of saying wealthiest, probably) had caused him issues that day. It seemed all the other delivery drivers were busy that day. Odd. When Fay walked in the store, she caught him yelling and swearing on the phone in the backroom, startling a few other people that were perusing in his shop. They couldn’t send him another replacement, not in time for the delivery at a quarter past twelve.

He reluctantly gave her the order and very threateningly told her that she had to deliver on time ‘or else’. He would rather have her deliver than risk being late, but he didn’t tell her who it was for. Just the address and that she should leave it at the entrance, tell them she was his niece if they seemed surprised at how young she was and leave immediately. He was so agitated about it she’d expected him to deliver the order himself, but his shop was busy and his son (almost as unpleasant as his father) was not due in yet.

She understood his trepidation when she saw just how different that area of Gotham looked like in comparison to the ones south of the meat shop and soup kitchen. The traffic was thicker, the streets were crowded and the skyscrapers around her shined like giants of steel and glass as they towered over them. The Wayne Tower, at the end of the boulevard caught her eye and she remembered reading that it was one of the tallest buildings in Gotham. 

The last delivery address saw her stand in front The Paradise Garden, a lavish restaurant with a domed glass roof and delicate pale colours that reminded her of Art Nouveau paintings. At the entrance, there was a tall woman standing by a brown stand decorated with flowers and she eyed Fay rather scandalised when she dared approach, large dog in tow.

“Are you lost…. miss?’’

“Is this 1259 Kane street?’’

A thin dark brow quirked, and brown eyes eyed her up and down. Fay knew snob when she saw it. She lifted the insulated bag with the remaining order and showed her the receipt Mr. Yuri gave her attached to it. “My---um, uncle told me to deliver this here.’’ It was a stupid explanation; why would her uncle even send her to deliver? Surely that would have offended his client even more. The woman gave her a look that Fay knew it had nothing with her age and all to do with how she was dressed. She was sweaty too, after running in that heat, so that probably didn’t help her image. 

Mr. Yuri made a mistake sending here there. Even if they didn’t care a child was delivering the order, she looked like a beggar amongst the guests she glimpsed inside the restaurant. It was all rather ironic, of course and she’d be lying if she did not find it at least a bit amusing at how tables have turned on her. The woman’s lips curled into a plastic smile that made Bag instantly dislike her. Fay shared that sentiment. “I am afraid you are confused. The Paradise Garden is a refined establishment and all our dishes are prepared by the finest cooks using meat from reputable farms.’’ Fay wasn’t impressed neither with the pride in her voice neither her condescension. “I will have to ask you to leave before---‘’ the woman glanced at Bag, whom stared back at her head-on, making her flinch slightly “---that _thing_ scares our customers.’’

The hot emotion that suddenly bubbled in her chest was unmistakable. 

_Don’t._

_Don’t let it get to you._

You are not allowed to feel _that_ emotion.

“He’s not a thing, he’s my partner.’’ Fay said tightly. “Someone placed an order here. I am not interested in going in---just to make sure it’s, um, delivered.’’ Mr. Yuri would blame her if she went back with spoiling meat or if her order never arrived with her client. She couldn’t trust the hostess wouldn’t throw the order away as soon as she walked away. Before the woman could come back with a retort, no doubt as offensive as the last, someone interrupted her.

“That won’t be necessary.’’ A male voice. 

All three of them looked up at the statuesque middle-aged man that had stepped out from the restaurant, stopping at the threshold. He was dressed even more formal than the hostess in a three-piece dark suit and white gloves. His heard was balding, save for the grey hair on the sides of his hair; he had a thin moustache as well. He had an unreadable look on his face but when he met Fay’s gaze, his eyes did not look unkind. “My employer has placed the order. If you’d be so kind to follow me.’’

Three pair of eyes stared at him bewildered. 

“Excuse me, but I cannot allow someone like her—‘’ the woman started, stepping from behind the wooden menu stand.

“Miss—‘’ The man’s eyes moved to the woman’s tag. “ _Holly_. The young lady and her companion have been requested inside. If there are any concerns, I am happy to communicate that to my employer.’’

‘Miss Holly’ paled considerably, and all her arrogant veneer was wiped away instantly. “N-no, sir. That’s—there’s no---‘’ She cleared her throat, visibly flushed. “My apologies. I have no concerns.’’

_Ha!_

The man gestured for Fay to step inside before him and she did so hesitantly, her paladin glued to her hip. She wasn’t sure what just happened, but she’d be lying if she said she didn’t feel satisfied at how easily– and gracefully- the woman had been dismissed. People should not judge others based on their appearances and they should certainly not refer to her paladin as a ‘thing’.

Once inside, Fay took a moment to admire the layout of the restaurant: the soup kitchen could have easily fit in at least twice over just on the ground floor which was decorated beautifully with dozens if not hundreds of flower arrangements. Natural light filtered through the glass dome above their heads, and it wasn’t until she was inside that she realized the roof had fine stained-glass decorations littered across the entire surface, subtle and minimalistic yet effective in casting ethereal colours across the room.

For the first time since she had come to that world, she had finally found a place that reminded her of home. It didn’t even feel she was in Gotham anymore.

“Please follow me.’’ The man instructed gently and walked ahead of them, as they followed him towards a marble, large staircase curving around one side of the room and leading to a mezzanine that had a long narrow fountain lining the glass balustrade. There was another room up there, but its entrance was sealed off by pale blue curtains decorated with gold motifs. A man dressed in a similar outfit to Holly stood by the entrance but unlike her, he did not bat an eye at either of them, saluting the man leading them cordially before leaning to pull the curtain away for them to go through.

The room inside did not differ much in décor, but it seemed to serve as an exclusive part of the restaurant. The glass roof was closer to their heads there and there were pale silks hanging above their heads, casting strategic shadows above the seats and tables, clusters separated one from another by large pots of flowers. Indeed, dining up there was designed to be a private affair.

She couldn’t help but take a deep breath allowing her senses to be cleaned by the intoxicating fragrance of flowers, by the soothing sounds of trickling water resonating discreetly from small fountains placed around, by the refreshing, cool air. The sun rays warmed her pleasantly as she took her time to admire the simple decorations around the room. It had no need for colours when it had the natural beauty of nature incorporating it and the marbled floors, of the same pale colours as the walls, created an aesthetically pleasant sense of continuity.

Bag pulled her out of her reverie when he suddenly tugged her to the left, and she followed him, amongst the vases and pots to the end of the room where the floor to ceiling windows offered a panoramic view of the busy boulevard and Dion Plaza across from them, bustling with people and vendors and kiosks. She’d heard about it as being one of the main entertainment districts of Gotham, largely frequented by middle- and upper-class members, although amongst the hundreds of shops there would have been those whom catered for the poorer pockets too.

Flanked by large pots of flowers, there was a round glass table and two seats facing each other, pushed close to the windows. Standing by the seat on her right, there was a small figure dressed in green long-sleeved shirt and dark trousers, hands crossed behind the back. Something struck her about the boy’s position, the way he faced away from her, but she couldn’t figure out why. 

“Young Master Damian.’’ The tall man announced. “Your guest is here.’’

_Guest?_

‘Young Master Damian’ turned around, and she abruptly came to a halt, heart fluttering. _The boy with green eyes_ met her gaze and smirked, which did nothing else but set off alarm bells in her head. Bag glanced between her and the boy confusedly, but when he sensed her agitation, he stepped in front of her, shielding her, although she was at a safe distance from both the other two males.

The boy quirked a brow at him, but he did not look in the least intimidated or surprised by the dog. In fact, he just kept looking smug and Fay suddenly had the urge to run away again.

“Welcome.’’ He said formally, then gestured towards the seat across from him. “If you’d like to take a seat. Pennyworth will take the order now and will be bringing out lunch soon.’’

The man could have taken the order at any point?! Which meant this ‘young master’ really did want her up there.

_Why?_

She dumbly handed the order to Pennyworth, whom informed her politely that lunch will be served soon. The piece of information didn’t really register in her mind because she was too busy going through possible scenarios as to why she was there. Did it have something to do with what happened at the museum? If she was in trouble, then why would she be called there, in that fancy place? Was it to make her lower her guard, so they could gather information out of her because they figured she was hiding something?

Why out of all people it had to be _him_?

She instinctively glanced around the room, looking for potential exits. Going back the way they came through was always an option; there were no guards and the restaurant hadn’t looked busy when they came through. However, in such a high-profile location, they were unlikely to get away as easily as at the museum if they made a scene. There was a room to her far right where Pennyworth had disappeared to, likely the staff room or the kitchen. There had to be an emergency exit there; the staff wouldn’t stand in their way if a large dog and a girl suddenly came bursting through. But they wouldn’t be familiar with the layout, and only end up setting off alarms. 

Going through the windows in front of her would have been quickest way, but she no longer had it in her to make such a jump (or a successful landing that did not break her legs, for that matter).

“You are free to leave if you are not comfortable.’’ The boy piped up, and she brought her eyes back to him. He must’ve noticed her looking around, but he didn’t seem alarmed by it. Bag’s tense stance did not change, but he also did not react any further which meant he sensed no malice or deceptive intent from the boy. He was telling the truth. Or he was just very good at masking his emotions, even from her paladin.

“Why—why am I here?’’ Fay asked warily, because there was no way in hell she’d sit down and have lunch with him if he didn’t tell her why someone like him wanted to have lunch with her. Was it about the painting? Did she end up offending some royalty there without realizing?

 _There are no monarchies in this side of the world._ She reminded herself. He was no prince, but he _was someone_. He had a manservant catering to his needs; he was dressed in expensive clothes and he was lunching in a place like that.

When putting all that together, it made even less sense for him to have ordered from a butcher across town. Mr. Yuri had quality meat, but _Damian_ must have had access to far better producers. Had he used the delivery to get her there or was the paranoia clouding her judgement from a more reasonable explanation?

“I would like to extend an apology on behalf of the unacceptable behaviour of the staff members yesterday.’’

“….’’

“Yesterday at the museum you were treated unfairly. I had informed the receptionist to tell you to wait in the lobby because I wished to speak to you, for no negative reasons. Obviously, she had proven incapable of following simple instructions.’’

_What_

_The_

_Fu-_

“I, um---why—why did you want to speak to me?’’

“Do you know who I am?’’

“…young master Damian?’’ She wasn’t trying to be a smartass; she was just very confused.

Those green eyes glinted. They looked even brighter underneath the natural light. He did not look offended that she did not know whom he was, but she had a feeling he couldn’t wait to tell her.

“My father is Bruce Wayne, a businessman and industrialist and the founder of Wayne Enterprises, a multi-national company that invests in a great many sectors.’’

Wayne Enterprises? As in the Wayne Tower? Mack had told her about it—the Wayne family were incredibly wealthy, top ranking not just in Gotham but worldwide. Bruce Wayne may have been labelled as an innovator and businessman, but he might have as well been royalty given just how widespread his influence was. Anyone with that kind of wealth and reputation equalled power and connections. All that could result very dangerous to anyone who crossed him. 

And his son was standing right in front of her, wanting something with her or from her.

Well, _shit._

He didn’t wait for her to acknowledge the information he’s given before he carried on. “As his only heir, it is my responsibility to be involved with the company in order to learn about it. My latest project has been directed at transforming Gotham into a cultural and educational hub by redesigning the Museums and ensuring they will mark their place on the map of top institutions in United States.’’

So, he was the one behind the changes that had been taking place at the Museums? No wonder Robby had looked so shocked when he saw the changes; that place must’ve looked very differently before.

He looked about her age, and to have that responsibility, it meant he was either very capable himself or very good at telling others what to do. Probably both. He didn’t strike her as the type of person who worked tirelessly behind a desk but rather one that preferred to have others fulfil whatever vision he may have. It wasn’t necessarily a bad thing, but it made her even more wary of him. She didn’t think it was judgemental to make that assessment of him – the world of the rich worked differently than the world of Dana’s and Macks’ and Robby’s, after all.

When she didn’t move from her spot, the boy pulled the chair from the table and sat down, one arm slung over its back. He looked comfortable, and perhaps he was trying to make her feel more relaxed, but she still refused to walk any closer, let alone sit across from him. He hadn’t answered her question yet.

“Let me just cut to the crux of things, shall I?’’ He said casually. “Rochester, the museum director, had alerted me to a visitor that had started frequenting the museum quite often. He found it suspicious, although I don’t share in his theory that you were there for any purpose other than you genuinely seem to have an appreciation for education.’’

It sounded too good to be true, but the panic was eating through her observational skills to tell whether he was bluffing or not (whatever she had of them, anyway).

“In order to fulfil the Museums potential, it must be capable of catering to different educational needs, particularly the lower social classes. The museums had been historically accessed by a narrow demographic that is not fully representative of Gotham’s population. There are different factors of course impacting low income families from frequenting the museums, even if they have free entry such as time management and lack of transportation. Wayne Enterprises has created and invested in several foundations aimed at supporting families, education and encouraging more interest in arts and culture.’’ He paused, looking at her intently and she nodded, realizing he was waiting on her to let him know she was still following him. “There have been efforts at mitigating any learning barriers through a wide variety of initiatives, including sponsoring schools in bringing children on regular visits to the museum. However, I do not believe that’s enough, and I have the data to prove it. Redesigning and expanding the museums was the first step in addressing these shortcomings and next is ensuring that the institution will be more effective in catering to all its visitors, as well as running a series of support programs to address obstacles that may impede people from attending.’’

She nodded again. Everything he said made sense, as surreal as it felt to be standing there listen to what was probably the wealthiest child in Gotham go on about his business. He sounded very proud of his achievements, but Fay wondered if he truly understood those ‘obstacles’ that he talked about. She couldn’t fault him if he didn’t – until not too long ago, she hadn’t fully understood either what it meant to have nothing and being forced to survive from one day to the other. Even in her current predicament she knew she was far luckier than most families in Gotham and had more freedom in how to live her life.

“What---what does all this have to do with me?’’

“I would like to seek an outside perspective on alternative lifestyles to ensure that my proposals are comprehensive and inclusive.’’

A long, fancy way of saying he wanted her opinion because he was too rich to understand the everyday struggles of regular people. She couldn’t help herself in blurting the next words. “You want my opinion because I am poor.’’ She found she didn’t feel bad about it. That’s exactly what he was insinuating, and she found it rather---amusing, although she didn’t show it. Oh, how have the tables turned indeed.

“Yes.’’ He replied, looking shameless, if not a bit amused himself with her bluntness. “But it’s not just that. Your age and your interest in the museum also play a part in my choice.’’

“…your choice.’’ She repeated dryly.

He smirked again, and his chest puffed out a bit, hands waving towards her as if he was presenting something. “Congratulations. I have chosen you to be the one to assist me in the next months with rolling out the next stages in my project. You will be handsomely compensated of course, along with many other benefits which I am sure you will be very pleased by. We can work out all the details later, of course, once we’ve had lunch. Business is always best be conducted on a full stomach.’’

It took her a bit to realize that the funny thing her face was doing was a smile and the feeling in her chest was not anxiety but _laughter._ She reached to cover her mouth with her hand, trying to quell how hysterical she felt. He misunderstood the curl of her lips and wide eyes for something else, because he looked even more smug as he clapped his hands together. “Take your time. I know this is an overwhelming and unexpected proposal but by no means, don’t feel ashamed about your surprise. It is okay to show your enthusiasm.’’

It’s okay to….?

_Asshole._

Her paladin glanced at her, and she could feel the humour rolling off him. She could not hear his thoughts but the look in his eyes was enough to confirm he was likely thinking along at the same lines. She took a deep breath, worried she’d start laughing and that she might offend him (although he rather deserved it). Did she even know how to laugh anymore? It probably wouldn’t have been a pleasant sound.

“I, um---‘’ She bit the inside of her cheek and averted her eyes from her paladin because he was definitely egging her further. “I appreciate that.’’ She started, years of etiquette reminding her that it was diplomatic to respond to an offer by acknowledging it first. “That’s a generous offer.’’ Her voice was tight with emotion, just not the one he assumed. He looked satisfied with himself, the brat, reminding her starkly of the spoiled, elitist children she knew in Maysoon. “Excellent. Now, please, take a sit and we can discuss—‘’

“No.’’ She hadn’t meant to cut him off or express herself quite that bluntly but his demanding, arrogant attitude irked her. She could be timid and a pushover most times, but she did not like the way he had already decided she’d accept, the way he gave her permission to feel gratitude and joy at his offer as somehow it was his prerogative. That well-known defiance of her people had decided to make itself known, although she’ll probably regret it later.

“ _Excuse me?_ ’’ Ah. There it was. He did not like being told no. He probably has never been told no.

She met his gaze which had darkened, his brows furrowed and—did his face twitch? She thought it did.

“I am afraid I cannot accept your proposal.’’ Fay said politely. “I think—I think what you are trying to achieve is noble and I am sure it will help many people, so I hope your---vision is successful.’’ That’s it. Smooth his pride over, first. Then reiterate to make sure there was no doubt. “However, I must decline. I---am not interested in being a part of it.’’ It would have helped if her words didn’t tremble as much as they did. The amusement had subsided, but her mind was still processing through the insanity of that encounter. Bag huffed at him loudly, because he wanted to have his piece said too (he had a penchant for dramatics, too). Fay bowed her head slightly to the boy who had momentarily stopped talking and was just staring at her a bit like the cat in her attic did when she did not get extra food portions. “I hope—I hope you find someone who can help you. Have a nice day.’’

Then she turned on her feet and walked away, as calmly and normally as possible towards the entrance, Bag following slightly behind her, just in case the boy decided to do something he shouldn’t be doing. He wouldn’t mind giving him a piece of his mind and before he left, he made sure the boy was aware just how sharp his teeth were. 

It wasn’t until they were outside, down a street past the restaurant that Fay stopped to take a few shaky breaths. Having the courage to say no shouldn’t have made her feel that way, but it did. Bag felt proud of her and so, after that entirely confusing and unexpected meeting, she decided they should go to the park and make the best of the day. Running a few laps would do some good for her nerves too. 

She might have to reconsider leaving Gotham sooner. There was no say how vindictive the boy was.

She knew exactly how cruel could be, after all, especially when people had the power to inflict pain onto others.

.

Damian stared at the spot she’d been standing in.

She hadn’t been emotional at this proposal; she was trying not to laugh.

She _was trying not to laugh at him._

That ungrateful, little--!

“Ah. I take it your guest will not be joining you.’’ Alfred remarked a moment later when he came out pushing a trolley, no doubt with the food he had been meant to serve them both.

Damian fists were balling to tightly his knuckles had turned white and his teeth gritted, his words barely pushing through in a low hiss. “She said no. What kind of idiot would say no to an offer like that?’’

Or rather she was saying no to him. The offer was sound. It would have played into her natural curiosity and she would have made money off it. But she had found it hysterical, because of _him._ Clearly, she was lacking in mental faculties. What could have he possible done wrong? If anything, it should have been an incentive to be personally recognized by the Wayne heir. He had made it clear, hadn’t he, who he was?

Alfred cleared his throat and Damian looked up at him. The butler’s expression was placid, but he could tell a lecture was coming.

“What?’’ He snapped, irritated, beating him to it.

“If I may, Master Damian,’’ Alfred started politely, undeterred by his defensive reaction. “Perhaps this was not the appropriate setting for the young girl.’’

“Because she’s incapable of appreciating it?’’ He knew that’s not what the butler was insinuating, but to his credit, he hadn’t expected her to say no. There was a part of him, the ruthless one, that considered blackmailing her. He had plenty of things he could hold above her head, starting with that beast of hers that had the audacity to growl at him.

“Because you offered her a role on her personal circumstances which may be very well a---sensitive topic. You have told me she hadn’t reacted well at the museum and ended up running away just at the mere suspicion of being in trouble. She is a cautious being, I’d say and having someone, especially as---imposing as yourself, approach her suddenly, it may not have inspired trust that it was genuine.’’

That had to be it. Not him.

Some of the anger left his body, allowing his shoulders to relax. “How exactly do you propose I go about this, Pennyworth?’’

Alfred’s lips twitched. “I may have some ideas, Master Damian, if you’d like to hear them.’’

“— _Tt_ \- fine.’’


	4. Proposals, stalkers and guilt (II)

_22 nd of August _

She hadn’t told Dana about what happened even though the woman made her promise to be more open about any potential troubles she faced. Fay was even given an old mobile phone with a pre-paid SIM card inside, so it’d be easier to stay in touch. It was because of that concern that the woman demonstrated, even though she already had so many others on her shoulders, that Fay could not tell her.

She wouldn’t be able to do anything against someone like Damian Wayne anyway. If he decided to be vengeful about her audacity to say no to his demands, then she’d have to figure it out on her own. Leaving Gotham would not likely equal escaping his clutches, but it was something he might not expect. She and Bag could find another shelter, and if needed, they’d start their journey to Europe earlier.

Of course, that meant abandoning the tentative roots she had laid there. It meant leaving Dana and Mack and Robby, and her attic which had started to represent a safe, quiet space whenever the world was too loud around her. It meant abandoning the dog and the cat and the ferret which she hadn’t named still but had grown to care for them as much as she did for any animals. It would have been a painful process, but she pre-planned everything already, including a way to explain her sudden departure in a discrete way to ensure it wouldn’t fall back on Dana and her family.

She was good at running. In more ways than one.

Thirty-six hours since the museum incident and forty-eight since her encounter with the boy. Nothing so far. He knew how to get her to that restaurant which meant he had tracked her down in ways that made her stomach knot uncomfortably. She had spent the last two days being particularly cautious about where they went, about their surroundings and when leaving and returning the attic. There were many ways he could have tracked her down, some she probably she hadn’t even considered on her list.

Her concerns were momentarily put aside that day, because Dana cheerfully asked her if she wanted to help in the canteen. 

The third Saturday of each month was always ‘Volunteer Day’ which meant anyone, regardless of age, would be allowed to sign up and volunteer just for the day. That meant that Fay could too, without having to worry about people asking questions; Dana would generally say she was the daughter of a friend, but they still limited the time she spent out in the canteen in other days. Fay wouldn’t have normally enjoyed being part of such a crowded and noisy setting, but she liked serving food and hearing the stories of the people that came through there. It wasn’t just homeless people – some were single struggling mothers, others were lonely widowers, many were former soldiers just like Dana. She had the deepest respect for them, because they were too, warriors.

Plus, Bag was allowed in the canteen too on those days. Most of the times, once people got past his intimidating size, they’d realize just how playful and affectionate he was, and it’d brighten their moods.

He enjoyed being a one-paladin show. It was one of his unique traits---paladins are not naturally approachable creatures, only allowing themselves to relax around their partners and his or her trusted people. Bag had always displayed a sense of mischief and desire to cheer others up, a trait he had never outgrown (and she hoped he never would). In that way they were very similar, both being such emotional beings. Both born with their own defects that made them stand out amongst their species.

Their bond was one of the few things in her life that felt right.

By eleven of that day, the canteen was packed, and the chatter was getting louder. There were a few teenagers, not quite happy to be there, but not having any choice due to their community sentences, helping Mack in keeping on top of the dishes and refilling cutlery and napkins. Their supervisor stood also decided to help with the canteen, but he regularly checked on the boys to ensure they hadn’t taken off (not that they could ever escape Mack’s spatula). Dana as usual, walked around engaging with everyone and Fay could tell she enjoyed it because she’d always smile brighter and her eyes would shine.

She really was a good person.

Robby, as sociable as he was, had taken to guide some of the parents that came to volunteer with their young children. Fay had stayed behind the table with Gloria and Ben, serving food. Gloria’s conversational tendencies made up for hers and her husband’s silence.

“Mack-‘’ She called, after pulling out one of the aluminium pans from the bain marie she had been stationed behind and turning to lean over the counter of the pass through. She spotted the cook slapping both teenagers over their heads with his spatula, annoyed that they had recklessly spilled water all over the floor. With gloved hands, she sat the long, rectangular pan down. “We’re out of beans again.’’

Mack walked towards her and pulled out another pain from hot counters she knew were behind the pass through. It was filled with fresh black beans. She smiled at him (it had grown easier to smile at them, even if it wasn’t particularly bright) and he returned it, small eyes glinting beneath his thick brows. “I am going to cook a new batch and it should be done in about three hours. Whatever we have left should last until then.’’ He glanced over his shoulder at the two teenagers and they instantly straightened, fear etched on their faces. “I hate Volunteer Day.’’ He grumbled under his breath, when he turned his head back, eyes rolling.

It made her smile again. “I will help out later too.’’ She placated, and he winked before turning around to go start on that new batch. She turned around and carefully slid the heavy pan in the bain marie, before removing the plastic foil and replacing it with a clean lid. Someone new had stepped in front of her and busy wiping the sides of the bain marie, she hadn’t looked up at them when she asked them what they would like to have. In her section she had beans, sautéed vegetables, fried garlic mushrooms and regular mixed salad.

“I was told by Ms. Mercher you require some assistance.’’

Her back straightened like a rod and she momentarily forgot how to breathe as she met the green-eyed _terror_ wrapped in a child’s body. Because that’s what he was to her, in that moment.

“Why—why are you here?’’ She stammered.

He didn’t look quite as smug as the day before, nor he looked angry, but appearances can be deceiving. Not everyone wears their heart on a sleeve, like she does.

“I am not here to cause you any distress.’’ He said immediately. “I wasn’t joking when I said I am here to assist you.’’ He pointed at the badge he was wearing pinned to his dark shirt. ‘ _Damian’_ was written on it in Dana’s messy handwriting she had become familiar with. Scandalously enough, he had even been given an apron which looked—odd on someone like him. He hadn’t earned it, so he shouldn’t be wearing it, she thought suddenly. That was both hypocritical and irrational of her, she knew but it did not change the fact that his presence there could not have been coincidental or innocent.

Perhaps she should excuse herself, grab Bag and then pack up her things to leave right there, right then?

No. No, that would be too obvious. Dana will get alerted too, and it’ll just make things more difficult.

“Please—go away.’’ She muttered, which in retrospect, was not something one should say to a potentially dangerous party. But having him there felt like a violation. That was in a way, her territory. She was not bound to react very well at having it invaded, not _after everything._ She’d run from it, sure, but that was different.

He regarded her intently, looking mildly frustrated and he opened his mouth to say something, but Dana interrupted them.

“Fay?’’ He probably already knew her name, but it still bothered her to know he had heard it. It made the threat even more real. “Damian here will give you a hand with serving. Ben has some calls to make and Gloria will need to give me a hand.’’ The woman’s eyes narrowed at what must have been Fay’s very pale face. “Are you unwell again?’’

“N-no, I-I am fine.’’ That sounded _so_ convincing. “Okay.’’ She settled for saying, because what else could she do? As panicked as she felt by his presence there, she did not have the hear to just leave Dana when it was such a busy day. Sitting next to him with other people around was better than being alone with him in a room. A few minutes later, the boy was doing just that, serving food and being unexpectedly polite to those who passed in front of him. He was by no means smiling nor interested in initiating small talk, but he was cordial. He also didn’t ask her about where anything was placed, he just went and did it.

Okay, so perhaps he wasn’t just a spoiled brat.

Or he was just very good at pretending he wasn’t.

Bag had abruptly stopped from where he was entertaining one of the veterans to look at her, suddenly alert. She met his pale gaze and shook her head slightly at him. _Stand down._ She could only imagine the chaos that would ensue if her paladin decided to attack. He resumed what he was doing, but he had stepped closer to where they were and she could tell he wasn’t as relaxed as before, because he kept glancing at them.

“Your dog is very loyal to you.’’ Damian remarked quietly as he wiped his hands with a napkin, nose slightly upturned in distaste. “You are fortunate to have someone like him protecting you. Especially in Gotham.’’

She didn’t say anything. She didn’t want to agree out loud with him, because his ego did not need any more validation and because she felt like he was trying to get on her good side. There was something hysterical about a rich man being so ignorant of the poor that he actively sought one out for feedback (if that’s what he truly wanted). It was the second time in a row that he made her want to laugh, although not for good reasons.

“I—realize my approach yesterday had not been appropriate. I put you on the spot and I had not considered how it may come across.’’ Did it sound rehearsed? It did, a tiny bit. She couldn’t tell if he was being honest, because when she glanced at him from the corner of her eyes, he had a guarded look as he stared towards the tables. It wasn’t much of an apology. 

“You---assumed I’d just accept it.’’ She murmured, using momentum from his seemingly honest admission to express her thoughts. “That’s---wrong.’’ It is wrong to impose yourself in such a manner in a person’s life and not consider their needs or thoughts. If he was always like that, the people working under him must be miserable. Pennyworth must be too.

“I am aware of that.’’ He grunted, irritated. He liked being wrong as much as he liked being told no. He seemed to realize his temper was getting the worst of him, because he sighed, then turned towards her. She quickly looked away, towards the canteen. Plenty of visual distractions there. “I am---not used to people saying no to me. That’s because there’s generally not a reason to do so.’’ _Or they’re too afraid of you_. “I do, however---respect your decision. If you do not wish to accept it, I will leave you alone. If you were to reconsider it, however, the offer still stands.’’

Well, that was----unexpected.

“There are many people here. Why---why don’t you ask any of them?’’ She asked tentatively. “I---they would have more valuable input than I do.’’ She only had several months of financial hardships to draw from. Even so, she could not count herself as a starving or homeless person because Dana had addressed both of those issues. She worried about Bag’s safety and happiness, but it wasn’t the same as worrying about putting food on the table for a family. Bag would find ways to survive – he was a hunter, a predator – if something happened to her; a young child would be helpless if something happened to his single parent.

“I do not contest that.’’ He clicked his teeth. “That does not make my choice any less valid.’’

“Because you don’t like being wrong—‘’ she closed her mouth immediately, but it was too late. The words were already out and even in the noise that permeated the room, she knew he heard her. _Why was he so close to her anyway?_ She didn’t apologise, because she would not have been able to do so in a genuine manner, but instead kept her gaze on the bain maries and spoons on the table in front of her.

“I don’t like being wrong because I don’t make a habit of being.’’ He said, although not harshly. He simply sounded confident in himself. She wondered what that was like, having an indomitable sense of self-assurance. A tiny speck of envy settled in her heart which in turn triggered a wave of guilt. As abrasive and unpleasant he could be, it wasn’t on him that she did not have a stronger character. That was on her.

Did that mean he came all the way there just to offer an apology, as much as it needed some work?

Curse her weak heart. “T—thank you.’’ She said after a moment. “For—giving me a choice.’’ Not many people did. Not ever since _they_ died. Dana gave her a choice too, which is perhaps why she had taken grown to respect the woman immensely and feel so protective of.

“Hn.’’ Her uncle would have liked him. They had similar communicative styles. 

They didn’t speak afterwards, because a new throng of people stepped through and poor Gloria didn’t look like she knew where to start, so Fay jumped to help. Dana and the other volunteers were running around, collecting plates, wiping tables, ensuring the games area was working properly (if it could be called that). It was a hot day outside, hottest one so far and the AC were struggling to keep the air cool.

Fay had once again acted on instinct. If she had considered her actions, she would have realized that a panic attack was imminent in those conditions. It was one thing to stand aside behind a table, largely isolated from the rest of the environment and another to immerse herself into it. The fear crept up slow, first making her confuse it for her body’s reaction to a lack of lunch, as her mouth dried, and her head started aching.

One of Dana’s friends, a veteran named Henry had stopped her to ask her something. She wasn’t sure what. The room had started spinning and his words were distorted. It was unbearably loud suddenly. The sound of chairs moving, food being masticated, laughter, different voices blending in one another to create a very frightening one. Someone was screaming.

No. No. That was in her head. Those screams belonged to that night.

She couldn’t breathe. The room was enclosing in on her and a few people brushed past her making her recoil. She was vaguely aware of Henry asking her if she was okay, but she was too disoriented to respond. She felt Bag’s fur brush against her hand, and a second later his teeth latch onto her sleeve as he guided her away from the canteen out onto the small hallway at the entrance. Underneath the stairs leading to the offices and dance studio, there was a narrow space with some empty crates and her paladin pushed her to sit down on them.

The world around her disappeared as she found herself in the throes of the panic attack.

Out of all places and times, it had to be then. She tried everything. Counting backwards, recounting random facts, remembering details of the last book she read but her mind was slow, too busy fighting down shadows and monsters that were not actually there.

_‘Maysoon….has fallen’_

_‘Where---where are they?’_

_‘The quicker you accept what happened, the better.’_

_‘You loser—why didn’t just die along with everyone else?’_

The growing prickly sensation in her left hand suddenly anchored her, like a life vest pulling her to the surface. She was still in the water, trying to stay afloat but that unpleasant sensation had tied her back to the real world. The vivid flashbacks faded; her brain distracted by the sensorial changes. She blinked rapidly, trying to clear the tears away and she looked at what was causing her hand to feel that way. An ice cube. 

Someone’s else hand – warm-toned skin, calloused fingers – was gently wrapped around her wrist. She didn’t have the strength or the courage to confirm her suspicions (the cologne was unmistakable, nobody smelt that way in that place). He was the last person that should have seen her in that state.

“Take deep breaths.’’ He instructed firmly, before shoving an ice cube in her other hand and closing her hand around it. He was---surprisingly gentle. Crouched in front of her, he had pulled a bucket of ice next to her knees and he instructed her to take one and put it in her mouth. She complied.

Between her tingling hands and the sudden hard coldness in her mouth, her mind started to clear, and her face was drying. The insidious thoughts and haunting memories had also receded, leaving her to deal with the shame in their place. Her hands trembled and it wasn’t because of the ice; the sudden psychical contact, as light as it was, tripped her. His hold was firm, but not hurtful. Bag hadn’t pushed him away, which meant that he meant nothing nefarious by it.

She flinched when her right hand started to ache. The pain killers were fading away; she thought it had been healing well, but in the past two days it had started to swell again and it was very tender. There were moments when she couldn’t even move it due to the pain, but she had to conserve the pain killers she had brought with her and rely on the milder ones she, well, stole from the pharmacy (she did leave the money on the counter when the pharmacist wasn’t looking so it wasn’t technically stealing, just illegal for her to own those pills).

“Your hand—‘’ he sounded irritated. “You need medical attention.’’ She immediately pulled her hands away from his and shook her head violently. “No--- _no_. I don’t—I don’t like doctors.’’ Bag growled softly, and she could feel him pressed onto her side. He was concerned too, and as much as he distrusted the boy, he agreed that she needed a healer.

Dana’s gasp made her jump and the crates under her creak. She looked up, self-conscious of the boy’s gaze boring onto her face and saw the blonde stand in the threshold of the canteen, wiping her hands down her dirty apron. “Fay, what happened?’’

“She’s alright.’’ Damian said, tilting his head to look at her. “Her hand needs to be looked at, however.’’ _Traitor._ “If you are alright with it, Ms. Mercher, I will have my---grandfather look at it. He’s just outside.’’

Dana’s worried features made Fay’s insides twist uncomfortably. Just moments ago, she had looked so happy and Fay had taken that away. “I—I am o-okay.’’ Fay reassured shakily. “I just—I just need new bandages.’’ Reluctantly the woman nodded.

“Do you have your phone on you?’’ Fay nodded. “Okay. Please let me know if there’s anything you need. I can have Gloria step in for me---‘’

“I will be okay.’’ She wasn’t, and she won’t be for a while, but she couldn’t be a bigger burden than she already was. “I promise. I’ll c-call you if anything happens.’’ Bag barked, as if to reaffirm his position as her guardian. The woman had nothing to worry about with him around. Dana gave her a secretive look, the one that said she was there if Fay felt she was in trouble, but the girl forced a smile which faded as soon as the woman stepped back into the canteen.

Damian pulled his phone out and with a swift movement he had dialled a phone number she couldn’t see.

“Pennyworth. I need your medical assistance. Soup kitchen.’’ That was it. No please, no thank you. It made her doubt if the gentle way he handled her during the panic attack had even been real.

He did help her, though.

A few moments later, the tall man from the restaurant appeared in the threshold holding a---medical bag?

Resourceful.

.

Alfred Pennyworth had a calming presence. He was the kind of man that looked in control regardless what was thrown at him and his disposition calmed her nerves.

There was a small empty room on the second floor, one that was used mainly to store unwanted or abandoned items by the previous owners just like the attic had been. She had explored that room several times, scavenging for items that might be useful, it was how she found the small fridge. The butler asked her to pop up on one of the tables tucked against the windows, after wiping and sterilising the surface. He was methodical, just like Mack was with his kitchen. She wondered if he had been a healer before becoming a servant.

He wasn’t just a servant, though, was he? 

Bag liked him too, even though he stood glued to their legs watching unblinkingly as the man sterilised his own hands and pulled on a pair gloves before examining her hand. He asked for her permission to cut her bandages which she gave with a nod, grateful she had chosen to wear different layers of clothes that day. Even if he pushed the baggy sleeves of her shirt up, the long-sleeved top would still cover the marks.

Not the bandages around her wrists, though. Or the silver bracelets dangling slightly. They used to be snug around her wrists when she left Maysoon, a testament to the decline in her calorie intake. To think she once had been on the thicker side compared to other girls her age. If he thought it odd her wrists were bandaged, he didn’t say anything.

She grimaced when she saw just how much worse her hand looked compared to that morning. In addition to the deforming swelling and irritated skin, there was a bump near her knuckles that was yellowish in colour. That’s where she had removed a deeply imbedded piece of shard a few days earlier. She thought she had disinfected it properly because the next day she found no signs of infection.

She knew there was a risk her immunity had been compromised, just as her healing rate had slowed down but she hadn’t thought she was quite that susceptible.

“Oh dear.’’ Alfred intoned. “Well, that would explain it.’’

She sheepishly looked away.

“May I ask why you haven’t sought medical attention earlier?’’

“I, um---I thought I cleaned it properly.’’ Fay swallowed nervously, feeling rather silly with the admission. She sounded very irresponsible (she had been).

She glanced at Damian, whom to his credit, hadn’t said anything ever since Alfred arrived. He was standing a few feet to her right, leaning against the windowsill, arms crossed over his chest. She caught the thunderous look on his face when he saw her hand, before he turned his head away.

Perhaps he was squeamish? He didn’t seem like the type to be ruffled easily, either but never say never.

“Well, the good news is that this can be drained and then addressed with antibiotics. The unfortunate news is that I have no way of knowing if there’s anything broken, however, so an x-ray would be—‘’

“It’s not broken.’’ She interrupted. “Er—sorry. What I meant is I’ve I checked.’’

Alfred Pennyworth did not look very convinced, with good reason.

“Miss Fay,’’ He started patiently. “If that hand does not get some well needed medical attention, the complications could be very serious. The infection could affect your nerves and you might end up requiring surgery.’’

“But if it gets drained then it’ll improve? If—if I am right about no broken bones.’’

“You’d still require antibiotics and constant monitoring, but it should stop it from worsening.’’ She had some strong healing herbs she had brought with her; they weren’t comprehensive, but they were used to treat infections. That only left the matter of the infection needing draining. She pursued her lips, mulling it over. She couldn’t do it on her own, not without butchering herself even if she managed to bear the pain. Bag was cursed with a lack of fingers, unfortunately. Dana will know what to do, she had been a soldier after all so she must have had some sort of first aid knowledge. However, it would worry her, and she might not even agree to do it herself, taking her to the hospital instead. That meant costs she could not afford and lies in Fay’s favour that might put her at risk.

There was one more option.

“Would---would you be able to do it?’’ The man did not look surprised at the request, but she could see it in his eyes that he wasn’t inclined to accept very easily so she continued quickly before he could say no. “If I go to the hospital, they’ll call Child Services and they’ll take Bag away.’’ She said simply, because it was the truth and Bag whined in response. She also confirmed in the process that she was an orphan, but she already knew there was a likelihood Damian knew that. He had tracked her down after all.

“Pennyworth.’’ Damian called suddenly but didn’t say anything else. Fay watched the butler glance at the boy before looking back at her. “Very well.’’ She blinked in surprise and watched as Damian stepped near Pennyworth, arms still crossed and face set in a frown. “I won’t alert any authorities about your status and Pennyworth will help you, but you have to come with us.’’

Sensing her immediate reluctance, Pennyworth added, “Rest assured, Miss Fay, you and your dog are free to go, if you wish, even after I am done. We do need, however, a more sterile environment and some anaesthetic.’’

All objections on the tip of her tongue vanished. He was right. Even though he had cleaned that table, the room was filthy. If her immunity and healing were truly that compromised, having him operate her openly in there might just trigger a worse infection. His medical bag also did not seem to contain all tools necessary and the pain might trigger her bracelets. She did not want to end up having to explain why her bracelets could glow.

“…. Okay.’’

.

The car ride made her anxious, even if Bag had been allowed to ride with them, seated on the leather seat next to her. Damian sat across from her but did not talk to her aside from a curt ‘ _watch your hand’_ when she accidentally brushed it against the seat, making her squeak in pain. Alfred had bandaged it lightly and told her to keep it elevated until they arrived at their destination. 

Oh right.

The Wayne Tower. She only saw the tall building briefly out the window before Alfred drove them in an underground parking. There they stepped into an elevator that took them to floor 112. That was high. _Very high_. In a building that was likely full of state-of-art security systems with far more capable guards than at the museum. If they wanted to keep them there, they would be able to do so easily.

With her good hand she clutched onto Bag’s fur, tethering herself to the safety he offered. The panic attack had left her drained and the headache felt worse every time she moved her head around, but she willed herself to remain alert. Blacking out and leaving Bag to defend her in that foreign environment was not an option.

_Ding!_

The doors swished softly as they parted, and the two males stepped out ahead of her. She only moved when Bag did, because she could feel his wariness but neither Alfred nor Damian rushed her. Once inside, she had to take a moment to admire the luxurious space from the sophisticated furnishings to the crystal chandeliers, from the reflective floors to the glitzy surfaces. Although aesthetically pleasant and inviting, it did not feel as if someone lived there regularly, however. There were no pictures hanging from the walls, no personal items on the furniture or even other staff members walking about that she saw. 

Alfred led her down the dizzying halls into a room that seemed to have been fitted for medical purposes. She plopped down on the bed, and the man instructed to place her hand on the wheeled table he pulled between them which he sanitised thoroughly. He had then disinfected her hand gently as not to hurt her. A shine bright light from the circular neon lamp near the table made her skin look gruesome; the bulbous head of infection was rather disgusting to look at and she felt embarrassed to having a stranger must put up with it.

“Now. I assume you do not wish to be put under full anaesthesia.’’ She shook her head. “Are you aware of any allergies?’’ She shook her head. “Very well. I will only administer a small dosage, just to be on the safe side. If you start feeling any discomfort or pain, please let me know immediately.’’

“Okay.’’

He told her she could look away too, but she didn’t. She watched as he took a scalpel and cut into the disgusting bulbous infection before starting to drain it. Alfred never lost his focus even as he walked her through what he was doing and explaining that she had been fortunate: the infection had stayed largely superficial and it would not require a more in-depth intervention. It was a lengthy process though and by the end of it Fay was convinced that Alfred must have done that many times over given the ease with which he worked. 

“I must say, Miss Fay, that you have been an excellent patient.’’ He said as he started closing the area. “Quite brave, too, for not looking away.’’

“No, um, I’ve had worse.’’ Shit. Not again. She really couldn’t keep her mouth, could she? She was so easy to draw information from; it was a surprise she had managed to keep a low profile for so many months. But she couldn’t help but correct him when he called her brave. It had nothing with courage; she was just more desensitised to it than most people.

In her defence, there was just something about those people as well. They did not feel like---regular people and it wasn’t just the wealthy status. Her instincts, as frayed they may be at times, were rarely ever wrong. Alfred did not say anything in response to her comment and when she glanced up at the boy, where he was sitting by the door, tapping away on his phone, he didn’t even look as if he was paying attention. He probably didn’t even hear it. 

“How does that feel?’’ Alfred asked, pushing the light away so she could inspect her hand closer without being blinded. “Like I have no bones.’’ She said, slightly amused with the numbness from her elbow down. The yellow puss was gone, as was most of the swelling, but her skin still looked red. The stitches were impeccable. “It looks---much better. Thank you, Mr. Pennyworth.’’

“Alfred is just fine.’’ He met her eyes, before glancing back down at her wrist. “Would you like me to have a look at that as well?’’

“No, thank you.’’

“Very well.’’ Feeling nervous again, she watched as he finished his intervention by wrapping her hand in fresh gauze. When he was done, he pulled the table away and raised to his feet, removing his surgical gloves and mask and disposing of them in a small bin nearby.

“Since you are here, Miss Fay, how about some lunch?’’ He asked smoothly. “Your body needs to heal and having a nutritious meal always helps.’’ He was a persuasive one, wasn’t he? 

The pulsing headache might go away if she ate. It would have been weird if they just left, right? She glanced at her paladin whom until then had stayed quiet, her healthy hand on his head throughout the intervention. He growled softly at her, glancing at the bandaged hand pointedly. 

The message was clear, if just between the two of them.

“Alright, Mr. Pennyw---I mean, Alfred. Thank you.’’

.

_‘Is everything okay?’_

Fay awkwardly typed her response into the cell phone, which was intuitive to use but not when she had only one hand available to use. _‘Everything okay. My hand will be fine.’_

_‘Okay. Call me if anything happens and I will pick you up.’_

She texted a quick response to Dana confirming she would do so, even if she had no intention. It was a last resort sort of situation. She wondered what the woman would think if she knew she had gone to the Wayne tower out of all places. Fay hadn’t offered much in ways of where she had decided to go with Damian and Alfred, just that she was comfortable doing so (she really wasn’t).

Before disappearing to presumably prepare lunch, Alfred had given her a sling to put her arm through as it was best to keep her hand elevated. The anaesthetic would take a few hours to leave her system, so she felt no discomfort for the time being. Damian led her back towards the sumptuous living room – or one of them- where he left her alone before wandering away somewhere else. She was too tired to question his odd behaviour.

Not told not to, Bag made himself comfortable on the - _very expensive looking_ \- sofa, placing his head on her lap as she leaned backwards, letting herself relax against the cushions. Her backpack was nestled between her feet: she never went without it, and Bag always made sure she had it even when she did forget about it as she had when they left the soup kitchen.

She found she could not fight her own exhaustion, after all. “Bag—‘’ she murmured, reaching to scratch his ear. “Wake me up if something happens.’’

“ _Rgggg_ …’’ He did not seem quite as on edge as he had been previously and that assuaged her guilt. She’d never doubt his empathic abilities.

The coffee table in front of her was the last thing she saw before she ended up falling asleep.

.

“Pennyworth, cancel lunch for now.’’

“Is everything alright, Master Damian?’’

The boy pursued his lips. “She is unconscious. That beast of hers won’t allow me to check her vitals, but I believe she has merely fallen asleep.’’ Pause. “You had something to do with that.’’

Alfred’s face betrayed nothing. “I believe she needs some well-earned rest. She should be awake by dinner time, so I will ensure that is served on time.’’

“Hn.’’ _Thank you._

.

The baggy clothes, the unnecessary layers. The bandages around her wrists. Her reticence to being touched. Her nervous, timid disposition and tendency to look constantly guilty about things she shouldn’t be. They all pointed towards a revolting but solid theory that she’s suffered abuse. Emotionally and psychically.

‘ _I’ve had worse.’_

_‘My life doesn’t matter more than yours.’_

Anger bubbled up in his chest, as it did when he had found about how Hannah Walker died. About how ‘ _she could have still taken it, despite her age’_. Gotham was full of psychopaths like Wyatt; far worse than him too. That big dog of hers was useful, but not against all the threats that lurked in the shadows.

How long before someone looked at her, saw how small and easy to break she looked before they thought the same things as Wyatt?

She wasn’t the only orphan in Gotham; not the only one at risk of falling prey to the hungry world they lived in. But she was the one who walked in a collapsing, burning building to risk her life for another child. She was the one willing to part ways with her dog, whom she clearly loved and depended on, just to help _him_.

Her hand had been in that state because she had been desperate to get them both out.

_Because he had failed._

_Because he had been weak._

_Because he had underestimated Finnegan, a run-of-the-mill perp._

Seventeen people died in that explosion, eight were in critical state and four children had to wake up the next morning knowing they’re orphans.

Mother would have been disappointed: not just in how he had allowed the situation to get out of his control, but by looking back on the incident days later still. By feeling something, rather than being pragmatic. She wouldn’t have cared people died in the building, she wouldn’t have cared about the girl that came in, crying and afraid, doing everything she could to help him. Talia would have derided her attempts and agreed that indeed, her life did not matter more than his. 

He did not want to think that, did not want to be like her. He needed more data on who Fay was, where she came from, what her story was but after observing her for several days, there was an emotion that had already consolidated in his chest. _He hated how broken she sounded that night on the roof. How easily she could accept she was worthless._ Even with her hand injury, she had not once made a statement to indicate she was worried about what would happen to her. She placed her dog over herself without hesitation.

Damian was not a passive individual, so it only made sense that he’d want to address something that bothered him.

He was going to start by ensuring she was repaid for her actions, even if she didn’t realize it.

That’s what Father would do.

(He did not want to be the monster he was raised to be.)


	5. Of morals, heroes and deals with the devil

“ _Sometimes a deal with the devil is better than no deal at all_.’’

― Lawrence Hill

.

.

.

_22 nd of August, 17:57_

She had no nightmares. She did not wake up in a fight-or-flight state, drenched in sweat and her heart racing. Instead she felt heavy and comfortable, her muscles lax and her mind fogged by a sweet drowsiness that made her want to give in to the lull of the sleep. Bag’s comfortable weight was pressed against her legs, a quiet reassurance that she was safe, so she decided to turn around and resume her sleep.

The dull stab of pain in her hand stopped her. Her arm had come out of her sling and she felt the tell-tale prickles over having fallen asleep on it at an odd angle.

Wait a second.

She forced her eyes open, blinking rapidly to clear her blurred vision. There was a glass coffee table in front of her and sumptuous furniture with a large TV and sound system that were decidedly not part of her attic. 

Then it all came back to her. Soup kitchen, volunteering in the canteen, the boy with green eyes and his resourceful, kind butler. She shifted herself in a sitting position to look at her bandaged hand, tentatively flexing her fingers. The skin felt tight on the back of her palm and it was aching slightly, likely sore from the invasive procedure but it was nothing she couldn’t ignore. Her hand looked smaller than before, so the inflammation must have gone down.

“Rgghg?’’ Her paladin raised his head to look at her.

“Yeah. It feels better.’’ She flexed her fingers again. “See?’’ Relief washed off him. Then, his eyes moved past her shoulder and she twisted to follow his gaze. Alfred was standing there, and he bowed his head. “I hope I have not startled you, Miss Fay.’’ Straightening, he glanced at her hand. “How is your hand?’’

She smiled politely. “It’s much better. Thank you.’’

“I am relieved to hear. Dinner will be ready soon. Do you have any allergies or dietary preferences?’’

Dinner? She slept that long? It was summer, so the sky hadn’t darkened yet and she had glanced out of the windows, she had assumed the decrease in light outside was just due to Gotham’s rather fussy weather.

“I, um---no. I am okay—with most things.’’ It wasn’t true. She could be very peculiar about her food, but Alfred had treated her so well, she didn’t want to complicate his life. “I am—I am sorry for falling asleep.’’

“Nonsense, Miss Fay. It’s good you have gotten some rest.’’ It really was, she did feel much better.

She relaxed and pulled her legs over the sofa, to plant her feet on the ground, grimacing slightly at the sight of her dirty shoes which she had inadvertently been wiping all over the expensive leather.

“Master Damian has mentioned you would be perhaps more comfortable eating in the study. You may do so alone, if you wish.’’

“…what? No—there’s—there’s no need.’’ She gesticulated with her hands. “It’s okay to eat wherever he eats—if he does. I mean—if he’s having dinner too.’’ He may have not been pleasant to be around, but it would be uncouth to agree to be accommodated like that. It was—surprisingly thoughtful of him, though to consider she might prefer eating alone.

“He has also expressed a preference eating there, so it shall be no bother. If you’d like to make your way there, it’s down the hall to your left, the third door down. The bathroom is the first on your right.’’

“Yes—yes, sir. Thank you.’’

He walked away. 

She exchanged a look with her paladin, before getting up and stretching slightly. Grabbing her backpack, she first went to the bathroom while Bag waited patiently for her outside. Once done, they walked in the direction Alfred had gestured the library was and stopped in front of the mahogany, double doors, third down the hall. She floundered, not sure if she could just go in. There was nobody inside, Bag would have sensed them, but she still felt invasive just stepping into that room.

“Why are you just standing there?’’

Ah yes. There he was. Appearing like a green-eyed spirit, out of nowhere, wanting to startle her. Bag grumbled, clearly sharing in the sentiment. She had a feeling her paladin was also caught off guard by how discreet Damian was whenever he approached them.

“I, um—I wasn’t sure if it would be rude or not to just—‘’ She gestured towards the door. “Go in.’’

“Didn’t Pennyworth say you could?’’

“Yeah but—‘’ she shrugged and left it there. Etiquette codes weren’t quite that different the worlds, as far as she’s observed but sometimes, she overcompensated to ensure she wasn’t overstepping without realizing. She stepped aside as he approached and opened the door, before disappearing inside the study. Bag pushed ahead of her, even brushing Damian’s leg, eager to inspect the place and determine whether it was a safe environment.

“Bag—‘’ Fay protested with a sigh, stepping in after him. Her paladin was only being protective, which she appreciated, but the way he started scrutinising the room, walking around and sniffing everything made her apprehensive. She hated having to excuse his behaviour as if he was a badly trained pet, because in Maysoon, that’s exactly how he’s been trained to act in foreign environments (although perhaps in a more discreet manner).

“I am sorry—‘’

“Stop apologising. He’s just doing what any dog would.’’ Damian cut her off, unbothered. He glanced at her hand. “Your hand.’’ He paused slightly. “How is it?’’ 

Her face flushed slightly; she hadn’t expected him to ask as he did not seem the type to be concerned over others. Perhaps she was being judgemental, given he has helped her so far, yet she continued to hold on her initial negative perception of him. She was allowing old scars to make her biased. “Just a tiny bit but—but nothing like before, so it’s okay.’’

“After dinner, Pennyworth will check your hand and give you antibiotics.’’

“That’s—that’s not necessary---‘’

“You would prefer losing your hand?’’

He was being a tiny bit dramatic, she thought. “No—of course not. But I have medicine back at---um, back at the soup kitchen. I can ask Dana to—‘’

“She wouldn’t have prescribed penicillin which is what Pennyworth will give you.’’ It’d be nice if he could allow her to finish her sentences. “And self-medicating with any medicine you may have could result in adverse effects.’’

He didn’t know about her herbs, of course, but he still had a good point.

“How—how do you know pen—penicillin won’t have any effects?’’ Her stutter was always worse around him.

“Because we’ll monitor you.’’ Bag perked up; Fay tensed. To his credit, Damian quickly rectified that alarming statement. “For this evening. If you are allergic to it, there are first responders within the building who can help; a severe adverse reaction would be obvious within two hours.’’

She wasn’t sure that was a risk she was willing to take. She’d rather try her way first. Fay was also not inclined to spend more time there than needed. Alfred has been nothing but courteous and supportive while Damian—well, he was as nice as he could be, but she was still a foreign territory in which she and Bag were terribly disadvantaged. She’d seen the cameras littering the hallways, and she did not like the sight of them.

She turned her attention to the study to avoid his eyes. To her left, the floor to ceiling windows offered an eagle-eye view of the city sprawling below. There was something powerful and freeing about seeing the world from that angle and once a upon time, she would have conquered those heights as easily as a bird. Now, as fascinating the view was, it also reminded her of the great loss she suffered as a result of her own failures. 

Across the room there was a mahogany desk with a chair behind it, and there were also leather seats positioned in front of it. There was a table set for two by the windows, which made her cheeks feel hot again because it felt far too---private. She was not friends with the boy, her opinions of him were conflicted at best and she did not trust him. Eating with him in that private setting implied a certain familiarity that they did not have and although Bag would be with her, she won’t be able to eat properly because she’d be too nervous. 

Her mood lightened when she saw books filling the entirety of the right-hand side wall. Oh, she liked that.

“You can look, if you want to.’’ Damian remarked stepping aside. She did not need to be told twice and she approached the shelves, brushing her fingers against the spines of the heavier tomes. There were no fictional works – just scientific journals, law and ethic books, engineering and environmental publications. They all piqued her interest, of course, but she would not know where to start from. She didn’t feel comfortable enough to grab one and peruse through the pages, but she made a mental note of a few titles to ask Mr. Fitzwilliam about them.

When she turned around, she saw Damian crouched in front of her paladin allowing him to sniff him. Bag looked cautious but his ears had lowered and when the boy didn’t react to being scrutinised in such a way, he pushed the boundaries by sniffing his face. Then he huffed. Unnecessarily so, because Fay knew he had already determined the boy wasn’t a threat. He was just being cheeky about it.

“ _Bagheera._ ’’ She called nervously. “Don’t do that to people, please.’’

The paladin grumbled, but he pulled back, smugness rolling from him. Damian narrowed his eyes at the furry beast as he raised to his feet and brushed his hand to wipe the wetness on his cheek and nose.

Oh dear.

Bag hadn’t dared…. had he? She glanced horrified at her paladin and his pale gaze glinted with mischief when he returned her gaze.

_He did. Oh crap._

“Sorry—I am sorry.’’ She rushed. “He, um, has a strong personality.’’

“Clearly.’’ The boy sneered slightly at the paladin who returned the look with just as much heat. He then looked at her, one eyebrow raising slightly. “ _Bagheera?_ ’’

Her heart sunk. She hadn’t realized she had called Bag by his full name; she had decided to stop doing that when they arrived in that world. She knew the story was popular there and she did not want people to ask her why she chose that name. Better to have people think ‘Bag’ was weird name, and that’s it.

“…yes.’’ She admitted reluctantly.

“The Jungle Book, by Rudyard Kipling.’’ She looked away, not adding anything else to that statement. If he asked her why, she wasn’t sure she could answer without crying.

He didn’t, however. “Your name. Is it really Fay?’’

“I---well, yes.’’ She nervously played with a loose string from the hem of her trousers. “It’s short for…well, I just prefer Fay.’’

He seemed to have gotten the hint that it wasn’t a topic she was comfortable with because he didn’t press it.

A few moments later, Alfred walked in pushing a trolley whose delicious scents immediately filled her nostrils. Bag perked up as well, licking his mouth. She gave him a warning look as she moved towards the table to sit down when Damian suddenly changed his mind and said he will not be dining anymore because he took off without any other warning. Alfred didn’t seem to think anything of it.

To her paladin’s delight, he had also thought of him because after serving her and Damian, he pulled out a large bowl from the lower shelf of the cart which was filled with meats cooked rare and roasted vegetables. After inspecting them, Bag waited, however, until he saw her starting to eat first. She didn’t need much encouragement – the chicken soup smelt delicious. She had barely eaten anything the whole day, and while sleeping had alleviated her headache, there was a dull throb at the back of her head and a gnawing feeling in her stomach. 

Her portions were smaller, but she was grateful rather than offended because she did not feel pressured by the idea of having to finish a full portion. It was just the first serving, too. Roast chicken with vegetables followed and they were just as flavourful; she ate slowly and in small bites. As awkward as it was to be dining in that elegant study by herself, she was relieved that she did not have to have dinner with the boy, and she could she distract herself with the view of the sun setting between bites.

Belly full, her paladin put on a show by energetically walking around, jumping on seats and knocking into things and even jumping on the chair behind the desk allowing it to swirl him around until Fay, mortified, told him to stop. Bagheera was a mischievous creature especially when it came to people he wasn’t taken with even if they weren’t malicious. In that case, she had a feeling he was acting out because Damian likely reminded him of the crueller children in Maysoon (her paladin could hold a grudge).

When the door clicked and Alfred returned to collect the plates, he immediately jumped down and feigned innocence. She had a feeling the butler saw through it, but he chose the high road and not comment on it. He asked her if she if she wanted dessert, but she politely declined – she had already eaten far more than she usually did, and she was afraid she might end up feeling sick.

After dinner, sitting on one of the leather armchairs, he inspected her hand to ensure there were no further complications – there weren’t – and then changed her bandages. He offered her penicillin, which came as two small pills and a glass of water. She made a show of swallowing them although she kept them tucked behind molars and gums. Handing him the empty glass, she smiled politely, and he led them back to the living room where it’d be easier for her to call for help if she did feel unwell because of the pills.

In retrospect, it had been weird asking her to dine in the study and she couldn’t help but wonder if something else had been planned, had Damian not departed so briskly. Alfred invited her to watch TV and while she was very curious about that entertainment mode, she did not feel comfortable to do so and instead told him she’ll read the encyclopaedia she had in her backpack, on European art and architecture that she had bought a couple of weeks earlier. It was discounted because newer editions had come out and she couldn’t resist seeing as it contained information where art pieces were stored across European countries.

Had her plan gone accordingly when coming to that world, she and Bag could have been exploring them in that moment instead of being in that strange predicament. Alas, she had let themselves get scammed and there was nothing she could do about it. She had considered for them trying to leave earlier but even if they did manage to make it onto the other continent, she hadn’t finished figuring out where the seekers were exactly – she had made some progress on the code but she hasn’t had many opportunities to calmly review it. Financially wise, she had to find a way to sell the precious stones and get the money and there was also the matter of crossing the North Atlantic. Planes were not an option, neither were smaller transportation modes.

She had settled for ships—cruise ships that is. She needed more information on them, however and she planned on asking Dana for time off so she and Bag could travel to one of the departure points to investigate. Whatever she had read so far was favourable in terms of the condition travels, but it would be incredibly difficult, if not impossible, without an adult accompanying her. Perhaps---she should look at a way of getting a fake identity? Who would she even ask?

Someone cleared their throat. Not actually reading the section on Louvre Museum, she looked up to see Damian stand near hear. She straightened, face flushing as she realized she had not heard come in. Bag sprawled next to her just stared at him intently, but she sensed no agitation on his end. 

“How—how long have you been standing there?’’ She breathed.

The boy threw her a look. “Long enough to call you three times and for you not to hear.’’ Green eyes moved to the thick book in her hands and she felt tempted to hide it away. “I would like for us to discuss.’’ He sounded demanding again, and he must’ve realized it too because his jaw clenched, eyes averting from her figure. “If you are comfortable doing so, of course.’’ He didn’t seem like he wanted to give her a choice.

She wasn’t. “I—okay.’’ She closed the book and laid her hands-on top of it, starting to feel some trepidation at what he could possibly want from her. There were many questions he could ask that she could not answer, and she couldn’t help but feel paranoid that maybe their hospitality had run short. When she glanced at Bag, she saw no tension in his body and he felt…. curious? Surprised? His emotions were slightly muddled. It was a good sign, because her paladin generally would have projected his concerns if he had any and she only felt a general apprehension that he usually did with anyone that wasn’t close to them.

“I have said that I will not report your status to any authorities.’’ She nodded, her chest feeling tight. Had he changed his mind? “I will not be backing down on that statement, rest assured. However, I would like to ask you some questions. I will not force you in offering me an answer if you do not wish to do so.’’ He paused, and he clicked his teeth, looking –conflicted? “I would—welcome if you did, however.’’ He added quieter, looking as if he found it difficult to admit that. 

The implication he could have forced her in answering though was unsettling. The fact that he was choosing not to give her little reprieve and while she could feel Bag’s dissatisfaction with the boy prying, she felt no aggression. Damian’s words were genuine for the time being. There were ways a person could mask their true intentions and be effective liars by rooting lies in truth but going down that line of thinking would not be helpful in that moment.

She nodded once again, an uncomfortable sitting low in her guts and threatening to disrupt the enjoyable dinner she’s had.

“You are not from Gotham.’’

She shook her head. They both stared at each other for a second, but she refused to comment without being asked even under the intense green gaze. He went for a different question. “How did you end up here?’’

Well. That was a loaded question but realistically, she had to offer some information in return after everything.

“I---um, I ran away from home.’’ He waited for her to continue. It took her a few seconds to find her words because what she was about to say hasn’t left her lips in a very long time. In Maysoon everyone avoided the topic, although it was everything they could think about, because they thought they might trigger her (they weren’t wrong) and while she acknowledged what happened, she kept that particular thought at arm’s length, skirting around it but rarely ever daring to say it out loud.

“My parents died.’’ She breath, feeling something snap inside her. It was like opening the lid on a jar that’s stayed closed for too long and the contents were unbearable to be around. “About a year and—a half ago.’’ Five hundred, seventy-three days to be exact. And counting. It felt she aged ten years in that timeframe though.

“Why did you run away?’’ It was a reasonable question, but he was also testing boundaries and for a moment she considered not responding at all. With Dana it had been easier, she figured it out on her own and when she asked Fay whether she got it right, her silence had been enough. The woman didn’t ask why, and now Fay knew why. 

“It’s—it’s really—I, um--.’’ She closed her mouth, pressing her lips tightly before inhaling deeply, hoping it’ll steady her nerves. “It’s---a bit complicated.’’ Sometimes she had difficulty figuring out why too, there were just so many reasons and they all fed into one another. Explaining them to someone from that world might prove impossible even if she had wanted to do so. She wasn’t even sure she could explain it to her uncle who knew about the immensity of her loss. “I---it didn’t feel the same, I guess. After---after.’’ Bag whined softly next to her, and she felt him lean against her which made her smile a bit, although it was short-lived and not entirely genuine. 

“Are you in danger?’’

Frowning, she looked up at him. “What? No—I mean, in Gotham? It’s a dangerous place but---‘’

“From your family.’’

She stared at him bewildered. Nobody had ever asked her that, really. Dana probably wondered about it too but had never voiced it; maybe that’s why she was so overprotective, because she thought someone would come and hurt her.

“…no.’’ She had hurt them, disappointed them. They hurt her too, but that was mainly on her. It was also not the type of hurt he was thinking about. “They’d never do that.’’

His eyes were narrowed at her, as if trying to get in her head and figure out what the truth really was. “I—why would you say that?’’ _Please stop staring at me like that._

“Statistically speaking, forty-seven percent of children between twelve- and seventeen-years old run away due to conflict with their guardian. For—‘’ his eyes flitted to her hands. No, her wrists. The bandages were sticking out from under the sleeves. “—different reasons.’’ He said finally. She heard the unsaid word: abuse. He was insinuating that she had been abused. 

Her lips wrenched in a grimace, disgusted at the idea of her uncle ever doing anything like that. She supposes that much of the childhood practices in her world could be considered abusive there, especially the mental and psychical limits they were pushed to sometimes, but such was life there. She was loved and cared for, even when she was a burden and a disappointment and that just made running away more cowardly.

“I—I haven’t been abused.’’ She felt very, _very_ nauseous and feared she might vomit all over the expensive furniture.

“You are uncomfortable. I can have Pennyworth discuss with you---‘’

“No.’’ She squeaked, mortified at what must’ve been going through his head. Again, it wasn’t unreasonable because the world was a terrible place and it did not allow exceptions for cruelty just because she was a child. “It’s—it’s not. I swear---My uncle and aunts would never do that. They—‘’ She floundered. Her agitation was not helping her seem more convincing, so she had no choice but to go for the truth. “I just wanted to be a different person.’’ She blurted. “I just---I just wanted to get away from them and not be reminded of my parents.’’

The silence was deafening, and she felt as if she had suddenly fallen from a great height. She had only ever said that out loud once to Moma, who simply stared at her with affection and pity but other than that one instance she never had the courage to say it. Bag could always just feel her emotions so there was no need for words.

“I---I---just---‘’ she faltered, hands balling in fists. Her stitches felt tight and her palm ached, sending sparks of pain down her wrist and elbow. “They---just had a different opinion on who---I should be. And I---‘’ Failed. Humiliated herself. “…couldn’t.’’ her voice trailed off in a whisper.

He stayed silent for a moment and she didn’t dare look up at him. Bag nuzzled her shoulder with his head, trying to make her feel less distraught.

“Relax, I got what I wanted.’’

“W-what?’’ What exactly did he want? For her to pour her feelings out, to expose herself like that until she was a shaking mess. Because if he did, he succeeded. 

“I will not ask you any further questions on you and your family, even if you do accept my proposal.’’

That was too good to be true. She tilted her head up, self-conscious of how red her face must’ve been and the presence of tears in her eyes but didn’t meet his gaze. Instead, she glanced at his hands. They were rather calloused for someone his age, and had it been her world, she would have considered it natural but in that world? Hm. Perhaps she was just being biased again. “But—if I accept your proposal, won’t you need to know who I am?’’

“Who you are now, yes. Not who you were. Unless you’re a criminal. Are you one, _Fay_?’’ He sounded too casual for what he was asking. Was he m

Cheeks burning with embarrassment – that was the first time he used her name - she shook her head. “No—no, of course not.’’ _Well…._

“What I am interested is that you have the required work ethic and skills to do the job. I would also expect you to be honest with me if there is anything from your previous life that will cause you issues in working for me. However, I am not interested in you or any family drama.’’

“But---don’t—don’t you need to do background checks?’’ She asked confusedly. “For—security? And—and I am also only—twelve. Dana said there’s laws about me working and I have no---documents.’’

“Nothing that can’t be addressed.’’

So, he wasn’t talking about doing it the legal way, then. Why would he go to such lengths? There were plenty of orphans and he could have just rounded them up and helped them instead, if he really was that generous and had the power to circumvent laws.

“I—I don’t understand. Why me?’’ She said frustratedly. “Even if---‘’ she looked up at him. “Even if you are rich and you---you have the power to do that, it—it doesn’t explain why. You—made your choice. That’s what you said—but _why me_?’’

Nobody has ever really chosen her. Not ever since her parents died. If she was ever privileged or prioritised, it wasn’t because people wanted to but because they had to or needed to. Bag was automatically excluded: he always chose her, but he’ll always be an exception to everything bad that happened to her.

“Because it’s my prerogative, unquestionably so.’’

It was incredible how he could make her go from feeling vulnerable and exposed to feeling annoyed and _defiant._

“Then I can’t accept.’’

“Why are you being so stubborn about this?’’ He snapped, suddenly. “Do you enjoy being homeless?’’

She wasn’t exactly homeless anymore and there was a freedom to her current predicament he’d never be able to understand. Not fully. He was very young too to have such responsibilities’ weighing down on his shoulder, but she didn’t think it was farfetched to assume their weights differed. Plus, he had confidence and boldness to help him survive; she didn’t.

“Because---‘’ His eyebrow quirked, his expression challenging her. “I---nothing as good as that happens without a reason.’’ _Not to me_. “I do—I do believe people can be kind. But—you—you tracked me down.’’ Might as well just put that out in the open so he understood she wasn’t as naïve as she seemed. “For reasons you won’t tell me---and you clearly care about this—this project so w-why wouldn’t you choose someone more qualified?’’ Perhaps he wouldn’t have expected her to be so bold about it (she didn’t either) but it was the truth. She was nothing special: it was hard not to perceive his sudden interest as him having a different agenda. What if it was just some sort of game? Something rich children did for kicks. _It’s happened before, hasn’t it?_ Why should he be any different?

Kindness was a double-edged sword. It could also be all a pretence, and she knew very well how much effort people are capable of exerting in appearing something they’re not.

She was not naïve. Not anymore.

“Hn.’’ What did that mean?! “You’re less gullible than I’ve taken you for. And you do seem to have a spine after all.’’

Her mouth opened slightly in shock, and he smirked. He was riling her on purpose.

“You’re---you’re really rude.’’ _I want nothing to do with you._

“I just speak my mind.’’ He said coolly. “If people are bothered by the truth, then that’s on them.’’

Not when you hurt people on purpose, she thought sourly. She valued people who were directed and transparent, but that did not mean they had a right to put other people down.

With a sigh, he added. “I will not make it easy to work for me.’’ He warned. “But I will be fair.’’

“I—I haven’t said yes.’’ She mumbled.

“Yet.’’ He replied arrogantly. “You have two days to give me a definitive answer. Sunday 23rd, at midday, come to find me at the museum.’’

Her shoulders tensed at the idea of returning there and facing those guards. The way people were whispering…it made her slightly nauseous.

“I can’t—‘’ She said fearfully. “I did---I did something---‘’

“I know.’’ He sounded rather calm about it. “I suppose you won’t tell me where you learned to defend yourself like that?’’

She looked away again and he clicked his teeth, which she was starting to learn was one of his habits when expressing dissatisfaction.

“Hn.’’ He got up. “Once the two hours are up, there’ll be a car waiting for you to take you wherever you like.’’

She looked up at him in surprise, expecting him to prod her further with questions but his phone was out, and he wasn’t even looking at her anymore.

“O—okay.’’ She watched him turn around, starting to walk away. “Damian?’’ It felt strange saying his name.

He glanced at her over his shoulder, same frown as usual in place. “Thank you for—for the ice. And---for not asking.’’ He hadn’t brought that up at all and the way he had handled it made her wonder if he suffered from panic attacks too or if he knew someone else who did. Secret agenda or not, he did help her.

He turned away. “Pennyworth will come fetch you when you’re ready to go.’’ Then he walked away.

He didn’t even acknowledge her thank you. She shouldn’t have been hurt by it, but she was, which in turn earned her a disapproving growl from Bag.

“I know---I just.’’ She shrugged. She was too sensitive, as always.

.

Once the two hours were up, she found herself by the elevator where Alfred tried to hand her the dessert in a rather fancy bag. She started to refuse it politely, but her paladin cheekily grabbing the bag from his hand, growled curtly at the man in his own way of saying thanks then walked into the elevator. “I—thank you.’’ She sighed in defeat while Alfred looked on slightly amused. Honestly, Bag could be so pushy sometimes. Alfred accompanied her until the ground floor where sleek black car was waiting and a tall, muscled man was holding the door open. She thanked Alfred again for his kindness.

On the way back to the soup kitchen, Bag did not hesitate to sprawl himself over the car seat opposite her and engorge himself in the cheesecake that Alfred packed for her. 

.

When Alfred returned to the penthouse, Damian was leaning against the wall near the elevator, examining the data on his phone.

“Pennyworth, you do know she didn’t actually swallow the pills, right?’’

“No worries, Master Damian. They were a placebo.’’ Alfred said smoothly. “The antibiotics were in her food.’’

“Hm. Well thought.’’ Damian conceded.

“I’ve been around the block once or twice in dealing with distrustful children.’’ Alfred remarked dryly. “Has everything gone well, Master Damian?’’

Damian sneered briefly. “She’s secretive and distrusting.’’

“Not unreasonable given her situation.’’ No. No, it wasn’t. He’ll address that, however. “I must say, Master Damian, I was expecting you to have dinner together with Miss Fay.’’

She had looked uncomfortable, being alone with him. In many cases, he’d enjoy having that effect on people. But with her it was the equivalent of terrorizing a rabbit. “Given her nervous disposition, I would rather she not threw up on me just because she was too afraid to say no to eating alone.’’

Alfred’s lips twitched. “How thoughtful of you, sir.’’ Damian scoffed, before pushing himself off the wall and walking away.

The butler smiled to himself as he thought of young Master Damian’s convoluted ways of expressing his gratitude to another human being.

Perhaps it wasn’t the only reason he was interested.

.

.

.

_24 th of August _

She had considered his offer. In fact, it was all she did in the past forty-eight hours. She changed her mind several times and she even went ahead to list pros and cons on her notebook, including the potential for him just messing purposefully with her. At 11:30 the day of the deadline, she stood in front of the museum for the first time in several days, ready to give him an answer. Bag hid behind the tree again, reluctantly so. 

She stepped through the revolving doors and stopped just a few steps away to assess the room. Nobody batted an eye at her. The two guards scanning backpacks were new, and there was a young man behind the reception desk.

‘ _Nothing that can’t be addressed’_

Did that mean those staff members had been suspended or fired? That didn’t sit well with her. They may have failed in following his instructions, but they hadn’t done anything wrong, especially the guard whom she injured. The others just reacted as they should have when dealing with a troublemaker. She made a mental note to ask Damian about it; she did not want to be the reason those people had no jobs. It wasn’t right.

She approached one of the new guards, but instead of checking her backpack he smiled and told her to go through to the reception directly. The man behind the desk seemed to have been waiting for her, because he greeted her cordially then led her to the elevator, she had only ever seen staff members use. He used a key to unlock ‘floor 6’ before stepping back and telling her that she just needs to go through the door right in front of the elevator when she’s at the top.

Six floors were enough to process the weirdness of it all, figuring that it must’ve been Damian once again ‘ _addressing things’_.

The receptionist had been right about the door, and she walked up to it, bracing herself with a few deep breaths before knocking three times.

“Come in.’’ Damian’s voice was muffled but it was indubitably him.

She embarrassedly pulled the door when she should have pushed and when she finally stepped through, her face was in flames at her own silliness. Damian’s eyes were trained on the laptop of him and he was seated behind a large desk across the room. He should have looked ridiculous, given how the furniture dwarfed him emphasizing how young he is, but it didn’t. If anything, he looked like he belonged there from the fine threads he was wearing to how focused he looked tapping away at the computer.

The office was smaller than the one at the penthouse and the walls were decorated with awards and various replicas and plastic models of the museum. To her left, the tall windows offered a view of Gotham Boulevard below and she wondered if she would be able to see Bag from up there.

She had to awkwardly wait a few moments in front of the desk while he finished the task, then blinked in surprise when he pulled a leather portfolio and pushed it towards her. “Your offer. Take your time and ask any questions.’’ She stared at it. Then looked up at him, then back at the folder. Still without lifting his gaze to look at her, he grunted, “Is there a problem?’’

Oh. Okay. He was going to make this difficult then. Best to just get done with it before she loses the courage, she had worked up for the past two days. 

“My answer is no.’’

For the first time since she walked in, he raised his eyes to her. One hand closed the lid of his laptop loudly and Fay tried not to flinch; she didn’t look away because if she did, he’ll just see how weak she was, and he’ll only bully her into changing her mind.

“This again?’’ He sounded calm. It was the type of calm that’d preceded a natural disaster. “Without looking at the offer. That’s thoughtless.’’ He didn’t sound offended but cold.

“I—‘’

“Read it first.’’ He wasn’t asking, again. If she turned away and walked out, would he stop her? Call security to arrest her? She took a deep breath and hesitantly grabbed the folder, before sitting down. She was only indulging him by looking at the offer, but her legs felt like jelly.

Lord, and what an offer it was. It was insane and although she had planned to skim through it, she ended up going page by page thoroughly. It wasn’t a normal contract, because she wasn’t of age and she had no guardians, but rather an affidavit of sorts. She could not legally hold him responsible for what he was doing, but neither could he. In the affidavit, he declared that she could dissolve the contract but that she will try to have any concerns addressed first. If she’s unsatisfied still, she only must give him a twenty-four notice. The contract itself took her a while to read through but it was clear cut and there were only a few terms she wasn’t familiar with. She reluctantly asked, more out of curiosity than anything and he responded, surprisingly without being condescending.

He was offering her work for a period of two months, initially, subject to regular performance reviews and a one-week probationary period. The total pay for the two months would be thousands of dollars, which made her eyes bulge thinking it might be a typo (it wasn’t) paid in instalments in the private bank account (how could she even have a bank account with no identity and no guardians?). There were also several benefits including access to private medical care, pre-paid cards to Wayne Food and Wayne Electronics and many others ---they would set up a person comfortably, even beyond the two months. It was the type of offer that people studied and worked for years and it was just being handed to her because he wanted to use her input? It didn’t even make that much sense what he was asking her, and the details of her responsibilities were vague. A lot of words not saying much.

There was a certificate in there too, that validated Bagheera as ‘emotional support dog’ which meant he’d be allowed to access any store she went in, regardless of their animal policy. They could be together always.

Most children in her position would have been intimidated, overwhelmed or too caught up by the temptation of such an offer to realize that he was indulging her by giving her a semi-legal contract that she could never defend herself again if he decided to take action against her. She knew better because despite her appearances, she wasn’t a poor person. She hadn’t been raised in the environment he thinks she did, she was not uneducated.

A sliver of irritation worked its way into her heart. Even if he truly was generous, agreeing to his offer would mean she’d willingly allow him to have power over her? Just because the ‘contract’ said he won’t hold her responsible for repaying him, that it promised her different ways out with no challenges on his end, it did not mean that’d happen. If Wayne Enterprises was the powerful company, he and Mack told her about, then there was nothing to stop him from making those documents mean nothing.

He could hurt her anyway, but at least she had a choice to not willingly play into it. Perhaps it was a valiant move on her end, although it was borne out of paranoia and fear. She closed the leather portfolio and brushed her fingers absent-mindedly over the grainy leather. She took a deep breath, before raising to her unsteady feet and approaching his desk, placing the folder down between them. “I am—sorry. My answer is the same.’’

“Why?’’ He raised to his feet, swift and graceful and she took a step back because even though he was her age and close to her stature, he felt bigger. “Why would you keep turning it down? I have followed through with my end, have I not? In respecting your privacy and your desire to not be reported. I believe the offer is more than generous.’’

So, it was a bribe. All of it, had been. At least her paranoia had paid off.

 _I need to get out of here and get Bag. We need to go back to the attic and---and._ Run away, if needed. Again.

“Because—‘’ She steeled herself. “Because the world doesn’t work like that.’’

His eyes were like chips of emerald.

“You did nothing but---demand how I should feel and then you—you tracked me down so---easily and you are offering things that---are not legal nor are they—right. I’ve done nothing to deserve any of this and you keep saying it’s—it’s because I came to the museum often and you want my insight.’’ Fay wanted to stop talking but she found she could not. Her stutter went away and whether it was stupidity or courage that fuelled her she wasn’t sure, but adrenaline rushed in her veins, just letting out like that. “You are lying. Nobody in your position would ever just look at someone like me and think they deserve thousands of dollars or a visit to your—your _stupid_ tower. People suffer every day. Do you just track them down and—and tell them what to do? You have all this---money and power---and titles and it---there’s no reason for you to ask for my opinion. I---I am g-grateful that you did not report me, and that—that you helped me, and that Mr. Pennyworth helped me---but that doesn’t mean you can just _own_ people.’’

He had an unreadable look now, even if his eyes were slightly wider than usual. She found she couldn’t stop still, even though he didn’t seem he had anything else to say. “The contact is false. I know—I know what a lot of those terms mean and---if you wanted to, it—it would mean nothing. I wouldn’t---I wouldn’t be able to do anything against you and---if—if this is some sort of game---‘’ Her chest heaved, and she was feeling dizzy. “Then I can’t do anything about it.’’ She finished off quietly. “But—I don’t want Bagheera to get hurt because of me. So---my answer is no. You can do whatever you want to me, but---but I---I am not going to just sign myself away.’’

Why not? She had before. She had allowed people to push her around, to step on her – figuratively and literally-, she had displayed a weaker will.

It was all because of that wretched emotion; the one that she didn’t allow herself to feel or even acknowledge. Somewhere along the conversation it had resurfaced, hot and bubbling, poisoning her and making her say things and want do things that weren’t her.

But it wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair how he just showed up in her life and ruined something close to good. How she had to stop coming at the museum, how he showed up at the soup kitchen, how he took advantage—and how she let him – in getting her to acknowledge her parent’s death. It might have been her weak heart, thinking she had to give something in return for his and Alfred’s kindness, but that’s exactly what he had wanted. All one had to do is take a good look at her and they’d see exactly how easy it’d be to get her to crack.

Bagheera would suffer her because of that. If Damian wanted to hurt her, Bag would try to protect her, and he’d get hurt too.

She couldn’t have that. She would not.

At all costs – even herself—, Bagheera had to be safe.

The adrenaline died down and familiar emotions flooded back in her veins, like a bitter balm calming the one that possessed her to say all those things. Her cheeks felt wet again, and pretending she hadn’t been crying again, she turned, bent to grab her backpack and started rushing towards the door. She’d jump out of the window if she had to, if he tried to stop her, anything to get back to Bagheera.

“15th of August.’’

She stopped short of pushing the door open, ragged breath and head pounding. She turned to the side but didn’t look up at him. “What—what did you say?’’

“On 15th of August, a building exploded on Bromsgrove Road due to a bomb on the seventh floor. Half of the building collapsed. Seventeen people died and thirty-five were gravelly injured.’’ Damian continued and he stepped around his desk but didn’t approach her any further. “There was a small boy inside that building. His mother had left him alone, just going to the neighbour to grab some sugar and when it was time to evacuate, she could not find him. He was hidden in a closet, with his dog, only two months told. He didn’t want to leave him behind so he hid in there---as a child he did not know any better, that he would not be safe in there.’’

She stayed there frozen on the spot, wondering how he could possibly know all that. She dreaded where the conversation was going as well, because if he knew about the boy then he also knew---

“You ran in that building, with your dog to the third floor even if the building was in flames and it could have collapsed at any moment. You helped that boy escape.’’

“How---how do you kn—know all this?’’

“Wayne Enterprises set up a relief fund for the residents affected. A woman named Julia Terrence reported that her son was dropped off by a large black dog near the ambulance she was in. Nobody else saw the dog but there where was video footage.’’ There wasn’t. “Robin and Nightwing were operating in that area that night. A video shows Robin and a girl standing on the balcony of the third floor before they jump off on the other building. That was you.’’

He approached tentatively, and her hand clenched around the handle of the door instinctively. She was far too raw to have anybody close to her.

“I am confident in my skills and intellect because I have no reason to be. It was easy to put it together---if a girl saved the boy, then a moment later she was spotted with Robin, then it makes more sense that she helped him too. The logical explanation is that you stayed behind to help one of the masked heroes even if it meant you could die. I’ve seen the video Fay. You were the one pulling him out, weren’t you?’’

Her mouth trembled. “No—no. That’s---I didn’t do anything---‘’

“Stop it.’’ He hissed. “Stop it being so damn noble about it. You went in that building and risked your life to help others. It was a stupidly reckless thing to do when you could have asked for help, but you did it. No one else dared.’’

“I---I am not being noble—‘’ She said shakily. “I---I didn’t do anything. Ba-Bagheera was the one who—who saved the boy, not me.’’

“What about Robin?’’

“It---I didn’t—think it through. I—there was no escape and I should---should have called for help. All—all I did was wait for someone else to save me. _I didn’t do anything_.’’

“Really. Because that’s how you got your hand injured, haven’t you?’’ Damian threw a pointed look at her bandaged hand and even though she couldn’t see it, she still reflexively pulled her hand away from his view. “The building was coming down so you had no choice but to punch your way out through that balcony. You could have escaped with your dog, yet you chose to stay behind to help someone who was meant to save boy instead. Robin deserved his fate—‘’

“Don’t’ say that.’’ She interrupted.

“Are you defending his weakness? His failure.’’

“I am weak. I am—I am---‘’ She bit her lip. The unsaid words hung heavily between them. _I am a failure too._ “Heroes are not---invincible. Heroes get hurt and they die and---it’s disappointing but---but that’s just how life is.’’ Her hand felt sweaty against the doorknob and she pushed it down, hearing the click of the lock but didn’t move the door beyond that.

_They died. Mother. Father. They **died.**_

“You wanted the reason why I am doing all this. There you have it. I am not playing games with you; it is not my intention to hurt you or your dog. That boy won’t be an orphan because of your actions.’’

“That’s not—true. I wasn’t---I wasn’t needed. The building—it didn’t—‘’

“Yes, yes. You didn’t know that beforehand however.’’ Damian sighed. “There you have it. That’s the reason for my proposal. That mother won’t be able to repay you, but I am willing to do so on her behalf. Gotham is a twisted place to live in, so not many would have done what you did.’’

“No.’’ She shook her head furiously. “You could have just said so and—there’s no need. I don’t want it.’’

“Why do you insist on demeaning your own heroic actions?’’

The volcano erupted underneath her veins, and her teeth gritted. “ _I am not heroic._ ’’ 

She pulled the door rather violently and exited it as fast as she could, heading for the elevator which thankfully had been left on that floor before stepping in and pressing the button for ground floor. When she looked behind her, there was nobody there and the door to the office had closed behind her.

He wasn’t following her.

Still. When she was back in the lobby, she ran as if her life depended on it, just like last time she’d been there.

When they arrived back at the soup kitchen, they went straight back to the attic where Bag watched her confusedly as she tried to explain what happened.

Then she broke down crying.

She was the furthest thing from a hero.

.

.

.

_27 th of August _

Everything went back to normal or rather to life pre-boy-with-the-green-eyes.

She had nightmares. She cried. She worked at the soup kitchen. She took Bag to the park. Her hand healed. Dana invited her to dinner, and she accepted, and it was nice.

She had no panic attacks.

She never returned to the museum although she wanted to learn more. There was still so much she hadn’t explored in depth.

She tried not to think too much about Damian or his proposal or his words, because she found it difficult to breathe when she did.

It doesn’t really matter. It was only a matter of months before they’d leave everything behind.

They’ll find a way home, and when they do, nobody will ever look at her in that manner and tell her she’s heroic.

Because she wasn’t.

(Yet it did something to her heart, hearing those words).

.

.

.

_28 th of August _

At that point, why was she even surprised he wouldn’t leave her alone that easily?

Bagheera sneered at the boy standing at the beginning of the alley, hands in pocket and sunglasses shading his eyes. She let go of the plastic bag she had lifted over the rim of the large waste container, then pushed lid closed with a ‘ _thunk_ ’. With a sigh, she stepped back towards the kitchen exit with half a mind to just go in and pretend she hadn’t seen him.

She stopped in front of him, waiting, her hands wringing, instead.

“I have a counter proposal.’’ He started, pulling his sunglasses away, then letting them hang from the collar of his dark shirt. “If you refuse, this will be our last encounter.’’

 _I refuse._ Say it, Fay. Come on. “Okay.’’ Coward.

“You have said that you do not feel you deserve what I offered you, even if I told you the truth about why I am doing all of this.’’ A bit too late, she thought sourly. “Which is why I would like to give you the opportunity to earn it. To prove that you deserve it.’’ Thousands of dollars? That’s impossible. That was a salary that others worked for years; she neither had the experience or the qualifications. She still wasn’t even sure what the role was about.

“One week. Work for me. For free, call it a trial of sorts for both of us. You will understand what is being asked of and I will establish objectively whether you were indeed right, and I should seek someone else.’’

“Why not---just seek someone else now?’’ Why did he have to keep coming back to her, in her life, over and over?

“Call it a social duty.’’ He smirked. “If you win, I was right about you. If you lose, then you were right. If you wish to insist on holding onto your principles even if it means accepting a chance to turn your life around, that’s on you. A man may well bring a horse to the water, but he cannot make the horse drink as they say.’’

Did he—did he just call her a horse? He did, didn’t he. What an obnoxious, terrible as--

“However,’’ He stepped closer, undeterred by Bag’s growls, stopping just a few feet from her. “If you win, I will offer you something better than money.’’ He smirked. “I will give you an identity. A new one, of your choosing, with a passport and any other security details that ensures you have valid documentation. Of course, you are still a minor. Emancipation laws state that you must be at least fourteen to file for legal separation from your parents or guardians; you’re what? Two years from that, perhaps.’’ He had an insufferably haughty look on, she thought. “Inconsequential, really for someone like me.’’

Fay’s heart was pounding so heart she wondered if he could hear it too. Her mouth felt so dry suddenly, as if she had eaten sand. An identity was better than money, he was right. Not only could she travel freely, but nobody would question why she is travelling alone, at least not in Gotham or perhaps most of that country. She’d have to look up more about what emancipation entails, and whether such a verdict would be valid overseas as well, but she understood the crux of it. He’d create her a whole new identity, that’d also address the issue of being without a guardian. It was not fool proof---even if he did have the power to forge her a new identity, she did not know enough about the laws of that world to understand how fallible it would be. Maybe she’ll end up getting arrested the moment she tries to use it. The lengths he was going to incentivize her were also dubious regardless of whatever ‘social duty’ reasoning he used.

But. If he wanted her arrested, he could have found easier ways to do than make her walk in a trap. The possibility he was still playing games was not completely off the table, though. What if he used the identity to track her down, to insinuate himself into her life even further? What if she’ll never be free of him once she accepted his deal, like Faust when he made the deal with the Devil?

Of course, those were all concerns that’d come with winning, of which she wasn’t particularly confident of anyway. She was tempted to try, at least.

“I see I’ve finally got your attention.’’ He remarked smugly.

She glanced at Bag, who stared back at her waiting for her to make the call. He did not like the boy at all, but he must’ve felt that she was reconsidering her initial stance. “What---what if I wanted to leave? I mean, if I won and you—you gave me an identity, but I didn’t want to work past the six weeks…’’

“It’s yours to keep. You shall not be in my debt at any point.’’

She needed time to think it over, alone so she could get all the scenarios out on a paper, the logical and irrational ones and evaluate all the risks. That made her always feel better, it helped with the anxieties.

“Here.’’ She looked down at his hand to see a slim, rectangular device. It was the phone she'd seen on the box back at the museum. “You have forty-eight hours to make up your mind. My name is in the phone book. Text me your answer by—‘’ He flicked his other wrist up, watch glinting. “Four in the afternoon on Sunday. If you accept, I will send you the details. If you refuse, feel free to keep the phone or dispose of it. I don’t care.’’

“What---what exactly will I be doing again?’’

His smirk widened. He really was the Devil to her Faust, wasn’t he?

“You shall find out. Make no mistake, _Fay_ , I will not go easy on you. You wanted to deserve it, so I will make you work for it.’’

Then he shoved his hands in his pockets and walked away. “If you don’t respond at all, I will assume it’s a no.’’ He said, not even turning around anymore. Fay didn’t dare move until he was out of her sight, disappearing down the street.

She looked down at Bagheera. “What—do you think?’’

“Rgghhh.’’

“Yeah. I think I am going to need my list of pros and cons, too.’’

.

.

.

_30 th of August, 15:37_

Between what Mack told her and the information she found in the library, a minor becomes legally independent of his or her parents, meaning they can freely choose where to live, how they earn and spend their earnings and enter legally binding contract. In other words, she has as many freedoms as an adult. With it, however, also comes the responsibilities. If she gets in trouble, she’ll likely be tried as an adult. Emancipation by a court, which is what Damian was talking about, is an arduous process and it is not often that children succeed in obtaining that status.

He had no qualms about committing forgery, so why should he stop at falsifying court orders? He proved her point that he had powers she didn’t, that he could hurt her in ways she could never defend herself. Yet, what he was offering her was akin to a Faustian contract. Legal freedom in exchange to be tied in his service for at least six weeks.

It was all wishful thinking. Could she really win? When was the last time she was victorious in anything important? It wasn’t just a matter of her self-esteem and lacking determination: she believed him when he said that he’d not go easy on her. He might even get his vindication for turning him down twice, but either way, what he was offering was no longer charity or recompense. It was a probation period; she was a candidate just like anyone else who’d go for the job.

Whatever the damn job was. Perhaps an advisor of some sort? If she had an identity, then she could officially work for him. After all, he was a minor himself and the laws of child labour clearly did not apply to the Wayne heir. He had more authority and freedom in his father’s company than any long-standing or high performing employees.

If his attitude was anything to go by, he would even be more terrible to have as a boss.

Was it worth it? Yes and no.

She had made an entry in her hidden journal for a hypothetical journey where she was in possession of an identity. Damian did not say he’d offer Bag the ‘support dog’ certificate but that she could find a way around it. Being emancipated was not a comprehensive solution; her travel to Europe would still require being accompanied by an adult or an adult giving her an affidavit, just as the hypothetical passport would not fully address the matter of crossing borders.

The documents gave her a starting point, though. Damian said he’d give her the money promised in the initial offer, which was still a ridiculous amount, but in three days after their last encounter, she had thought about how she could have used that money to avoid boarding the ship illegitimately altogether, by having an adult accompany her. Dana herself. Robby and Mack, too, maybe. She could finally repay them for their generosity and continuous efforts, and she’d also get adults to accompany her and Bag. It was selfish, she knew but the days were going by quick, and she was running out of alternatives. She had to be practical regardless of her shame and guilt about it, because it was an all or nothing situation.

She didn’t need the identity to have Dana accompany her, perhaps but it’d help. The money would make it easier to purchase the tickets, which were incredibly expensive from the looks of it. It would be much harder to pull off that plan if she rejected Damian’s challenge altogether; at least she could give it a try.

If she lost, she’d be left with the worst-case scenario which she had already planned out separately. She had to find a way to sell the precious stones she had left – _a feat in itself, giving how it’d look for a child to walk in a pawn shop with gems and jewels, especially in Gotham_ – which along with her savings, she could afford to purchase the tickets. She’d find a way to give them to Dana and the others, that wasn’t a major issue, but she and Bag would be left with no financial back up once they were in Europe. They could survive on what Dana paid her from the soup kitchen but once – and if—they arrived on the other continent; they’d once again be in foreign territory. Having little or no money would set them back immensely. Who knows what type of dangers and risks they’d face there?

There was also the matter of causing Dana quite a lot of heartache if they disappeared during the trip, but if she could just get in touch with a _seeker,_ she could get word to her family. She’d make sure Dana was rewarded generously even if she’d never know; her uncle might even allow her some time to say goodbye.

She had beat herself up for having been so quick to say no to Damian days earlier; she could have at least asked for more time to think about it than act on emotion. She still didn’t think she deserved the money, but she should have been practical. She had thought like the old Fay who had resources and did not have to worry about getting by; she should have thought like a survivor, instead. If she had accepted then, she wouldn’t have a ‘worst-case’ scenario, she wouldn’t have to worry about failing the challenge which will do no wonders to her already tattered self-esteem.

She had even considered grovelling for it, but whatever was left of her pride stopped her. She’d just give him something to lord over her if he knew she was desperate. She could have not given him any more leverage than he already had.

She had to work for it, she had to prove herself. It was the right thing to do, but she was not a winner. Had not been for a while. Even if she made it through whatever he planned for her, there was no guarantee he’ll hold his end of bargain, that her new identity won’t cause more issues, that he won’t deceive her again and blackmail her. That wasn’t just paranoia talking; it was personal experience. The world was full of hungry, greedy people, after all.

Her chances of winning were slim.

She glanced at the screen of the phone in her hands.

If she lost, she’d never have to deal with him again. He’d leave them alone; she’d have to find another way for them to get on the other side. She was back to the stage she was at before he insinuated himself in her life, so she could just pretend she never met him. If she lost, he might humiliate her too, although she was no stranger to it.

If she won, part of their troubles would be addressed. She’d have to put up with him for six weeks. But she’s only met him a handful of times and he already caused her quite a lot of agitation. Seeing him more often than that? Having to comply with his demands and arrogant attitude? She might as well be back in Maysoon where she dealt with people like that daily. Weren’t they one of the reasons she left?

_But._

She glanced at Bagheera who was standing next to her, switching his attention between the phone and her eyes.

It was worth it if it meant increasing her chances of getting Bagheera in a world where he was not seen as a pet and forced to wait outside the store for her. 

.

_15:57_

_‘I accept.’_

“My, Master Damian, you look like at the bird who just ate the canary.’’

Damian tutted. “Mind your own business, Pennyworth.’’ He slid down from the stool of the kitchen island and walked away, tapping away on his phone.

Dick Grayson stared confusedly at the retreating boy before glancing back at Alfred, who was preparing a batch of popcorn while the former Robin whipped up a smoothie. “What was _that_ about?’’

“Master Damian has taken Master Bruce’s advice to interact with individuals closer in his age, it seems.’’

“…really? He’s making friends?’’ Dick asked. He hoped there was no kidnapping involved.

“It’s a work in progress.’’ Alfred replied smoothly. “Young Miss Fay is a lovely young lady who has proven to be rather, shall we say, vexing.’’

“…a girl, huh?’’

Lord help them all.

.

_17:30_

Fay’s mother had been headstrong, bold, loud. Absolutely loved making use of profanity to express her ire. Sometimes her happiness too. So, Fay herself grew up around a lot of words that perhaps were not appropriate, and she always listened to her mother when she said she could not copy her until she had ‘enough problems to justify them’, as she used to say.

One can safely assume witnessing the death of hundreds of people would qualify as a problem justifying the use of profanity.

So.

What.

The.

Actual.

Fu—

“Here you go, miss. That’s everything now. Have a pleasant evening.’’

She didn’t pay any attention to the uniformed man walking back to his car, too busy staring at the _seven_ boxes he had left in two piles in front of her, at the back end of the alley where the fire staircase was. Damian had asked her to be at the soup kitchen in fifteen minutes with no explanation or even an acknowledgement of her text. She and Bag hesitantly came back down in the alley and surely enough a dark car arrived at 17:30 on the dot, in a car that was bound to get anyone’s attention in that area. Thankfully, on the street behind the soup kitchen, there rarely ever was traffic compared to the main road on the other side. He saluted her cordially then unmounted the boxes. When she asked him what they were, he told her he was not informed, just instructed to deliver them by Mr. Wayne.

As it turns out the boxes were full of books and statistical reports and financial publications on the museums from previous years. It took her and Bag several trips up and down the staircase to get all the boxes in the attic, suddenly feeling much smaller, where she took them the contents out and inspected them; figuring Damian wanted to read them.

But _all of them_?

A moment later, the green-eyed devil texted.

‘ _Tomorrow, 12:00 at the Museum. Don’t be late or you’re disqualified.’_ Disqualified. Well, he did say he wasn’t going to go easy.

Somehow a deal with an actual devil sounded better than whatever she had agreed to with Damian Wayne.

.

.

.

_31 st of August, 13:47 _

She hadn’t been late. In fact, she was twenty minutes early. Just like last time, the reception allowed her to take the elevator to the top floor and Bag had been left waiting outside.

Except this time the hall wasn’t empty. There were chairs propped against both walls and there were other people there. Men and women dressed in formal suits and fine threads, holding leather portfolios and looking presentable. They all stared at her surprised, and she couldn’t blame them. Her clothes were clean, but they weren’t steamed, and they fit her poorly because she barely owned anything that wasn’t at least three sizes bigger, without considering her already thin frame. Her canvas shoes were dirty, as well.

She had always been messy, but that world had made her turn into a slob, really.

She was on the right floor, she checked. Twice. The receptionist had also told her she was expected on that floor, so there was no mistake.

“Are you lost, sweetie?’’ A blond, blue-eyed woman asked, from a seat nearest to the elevator. She was very pretty, Fay thought, and very elegantly dressed from the coifed hair to the discrete but complimenting jewellery she was wearing.

“I, um, no. Thank you.’’ Fay mumbled and walking past all the chairs, head bowed she sat on the furthest chair possible. She could feel the confused gazes bore on her, but their attention was diverted when the office doors opened and a tall, sturdy man walked out in an a fine-tailored suit. He was wearing a pad in one hand, which also had a rather massive gold watch on the wrist. He looked no older than forty, perhaps older but he carried himself with the countenance of a much younger man. 

“Thank you all for coming. My name is William Rochester, and I am the museum director. We shall go ahead and start the interviewing process now.’’ _Interview process?!_ He raised his pad and stared at the sheet of paper attached to it. “First on the list, is Miss Rachel Richards.’’ Ah. It was the woman that spoke to her. Fay watched her as she raised to her full weight – she was even more beautiful standing up – and walked in the office gracefully, despite the very tall heels she was wearing. Mr. Rochester gave them a curt smile then walked in after her, closing the doors behind them.

That left the hall with four other candidates, three men and another woman. Fay caught a mixture of envy and concern on two of the men’s faces, as they started chatting to each other in low tones about the role, boasting to each other about their education and previous roles, and pointing out how everyone knew that working for anywhere that’s touched by Wayne Enterprises, means being set for life.

The only other woman there, brown haired and shorter in stature than the other came to sit two seats away from Fay and offered her chewing gum. Her features weren’t as striking as the other woman’s, but Fay thought she was very pleasant to look at, perhaps due to her kind smile and bubbly attitude. She felt compelled to smile back at her, even if it didn’t reach her eyes. The woman stood out amongst the other candidates there: she wasn’t dressed in clothes as expensive as the other woman and her hair was pinned back simply; she was only wearing a bit of lipstick and she was dressed simpler. Fay noticed that her shoes, flat, albeit made of leather and polished were also worn out. Her blazer did not match her skirt in colours although the dark green blouse she wore underneath fit her hair and eyes. 

The other two men, sitting across from them were dressed just as expensively as Mr. Rochester and their stances were confident, dominating even whereas the woman who sat next to her simply placed her purse on her lap, legs tucked under the chair. There was a younger man, too standing next to the other two not that much older than Robby, actually. He too, was wearing a suit but it was a bit too large for his frame and she thought she could see the tag sticking from the back of his neck. Unlike the men next to him, he kept his head bowed reading from his rather haphazard portfolio filled with post-its and papers.

“My name is Helen, dear. What is yours?’’ The woman handed her a hand and Fay reflexively shook it, manners kicking in faster than her reticence of being touched did.

“Um, Fay.’’

“Hm. That’s a lovely name.’’ The woman’s perfume was overpowered by the scent of…pastries? Hm. A much better scent in the girl’s opinion.

The two men laughed raucously about something, and when Fay looked at them, she realized they were glancing at Helen. She was very good at telling when people were laughing about others because she had been on the receiving one too many times. Something hot unfurled in her chest. The emotion-dare-not-be-named. Helen hadn’t noticed because she carried on talking---she talked just as much as Gloria, but she was a pleasant character, one who didn’t expect the others to respond her if they didn’t feel comfortable.

While waiting for almost two hours, Fay learned that the woman had studied media and communication, that she had a thing called a ‘ _Masters_ ’ but she gave up on her career because she had twins who were complete devils. They were the apple of her eye, them and her husband, Mike, who worked in constructions but had injured his back a year earlier, leaving him paralysed from the waist down. Even though they were full of debt and struggling, the woman did not complain once about their circumstances, instead mentioning how blessed they were for having a roof above their heads, for having two healthy children, for her husband to be alive. They seemed to have so little – especially in comparison with what Fay had back in Maysoon – but they preferred to look at the positive side of things.

It made Fay reflect on many things, all at once, and her eyes stung but the woman didn’t notice.

Rachel Richards stayed inside for half an hour and when she came out, she looked rather pleased as Mr. Rochester quietly gave her instructions on what was next as he led her back to the elevator. The younger boy followed next, and he was only in for twenty minutes. When he came out, his face was flushed, his forehead was sweaty, and he looked very faint as he shakily called for the elevator. Perhaps they should have been friends, Fay thought amusedly, because they both seemed to have the same nervous disposition. The other two candidates followed, each in for half an hour as well and they looked just as smug when they left. 

Helen was last but did not lose her composure or confidence and just winked at Fay before following Rochester inside.

While the woman was inside, Damian appeared, business suit on, and Fay felt a confusing mix of embarrassment and irritation upon seeing him. “Hm. So did you wait.’’

Did her face twitch? She felt it twitch.

He made her wait there on purpose. As a _test_?

She considered just leaving, but she did wait, so might as well hear what the entire challenge was about. He gestured for her to follow him through one of the doors down the hall which turned out to be a meeting room. Oh, and look at that. More boxes. Except this time there were also stacks of files and dossiers, as well as long papers rolled up---blueprints, maybe?

“Why---who were all those people?’’ she asked quietly, watching him something from his jacket. It was a paper envelope, A4 size.

“The museum is hiring for a Program Manager role.’’ He replied. She could deduce what it meant but she still didn’t know why she had to wait for all of them. “They’ll all go through a one-week probation, time during which their ability will be tested. Rochester will then evaluate them and decide who is getting what role.’’ He slid the envelope down the table towards her and she caught it right before it fell off, out of reflex than anything else. “Much like yourself, their critical thinking skills, resilience and ability to think quickly on their feet will be tested.’’

Crap.

She didn’t think it’d be easy, but she had assumed – hoped – it’d be manual labour; maybe clean the museum, refill coffee machines, sweep…that sort of thing. It made sense he’d ask for a lot more than giving what was at stake.

Her own morals were causing her more trouble.

“Am---am I helping, any of them…or?’’

“Not exactly. You are a child, an unaccompanied one at that. So, you will pose as a volunteer, the daughter of one of the angel investors. Rochester has already been given some detail and he has been instructed to maintain discretion. The other candidates will have to do the same if they wish to stay in this race.’’

People would still ask questions, though. They must have about Damian too, whom despite his genius and mature attitude, was a child himself. She’d heard people whisper; she’d started paying more attention to what the newspapers said. Robby had also told her that he wasn’t the only son Bruce Wayne had; just the one related by blood. There were several others. It seemed Bruce Wayne had a thing for collecting orphans, as Mack cynically remarked.

It gave her a dreadful feeling because the way Damian was infiltrating her life sounded suspiciously like him being charitable, just in a very twisted and confusing way. She honestly didn’t know what to make of it. Maybe it was a ‘social duty’ for him; he just didn’t know how to go about it like a normal person. If he really wanted to acknowledge her so called bravery, he could have said thank you and maybe given her some sort of prize, _not_ worth thousands of dollars and a new identity.

He gave the envelop in her hand a paper envelope. “So, you know I am serious about giving you an identity, you will find details of it in there. And a new background should anyone ask questions, unless you start blabbering.’’ She didn’t dare open it, and he didn’t ask her to. “The rest of documents will follow if you complete the challenge successfully. If you don’t, the identity inside that envelope will be automatically annulled.’’

She nodded in understanding. “What---what exactly…am I meant to be doing?’’

“Finish your reading for the time being.’’ He gestured to the other boxes in the room. “There’s more where that came from. Keep your phone close, I will contact you when and where you’re meant to go and what to do.’’

Wait.

That was it?

He made her come there, wait two hours just for five minutes of conversation? He could have easily just texted or called her and used the same delivery guy to send her the paperwork. As she found out later, he didn't even come there for her but to have a meeting with the board members of the museum. 

What a complete asshole. A dramatic one, at that. 

What had she gotten herself into?


	6. Of green-eyed tyrants, altruism and smoke bombs

_“No one is useless in this world who lightens the burdens of another.’’_

\- Charles Dickens

.

.

.

_A week in the making…_

Damian Wayne was a tyrant.

He used the phone to terrorize her at _all_ times of the day regardless of where she was: be it the solitude of her attic or working at the soup kitchen or _already_ running errands for him. _Did he ever sleep?!_ If she got even a moment for herself throughout the day, he’d text her. Two days in, the only time she's gotten away was when she snuck in at the gym to take a shower - very quickly, that is, as if he was there to rush her through. 

He had to be spying on her, right? There was no other explanation, as irrational as that was.

_I need to stop being paranoid all the time. That’s the last thing I need now._

Damian quizzed her incessantly, expecting her to read even beyond the files he’s given her, ‘ _show initiative’_. He sent her another four boxes on Monday afternoon. Even with her inclination to only sleep a few hours each night, she still struggled with keeping up. He didn’t care if she had the shifts at the soup kitchen, too. She either made it or she didn’t. Whenever she didn’t know the answer to a question, he’d tell her she lost points although he never told her just how the points system worked.

 _When did Gotham Museums burn down?_ Apparently, it burned more than once. Clearly, she should have known, had she read it the papers correctly, he texted.

_What was the visitor rate in 2007?_

_How many exhibits did the museums have previously?_

_Which floor was a specific item situated?_

_How many staff members were employed?_

_How do the holidays impact visitor volume?_

_How many seats did the new movie theatre have?_

He was a tyrant, indeed.

One that also ordered her to make sure she stays properly hydrated, that she stopped filling herself on sugar as a substitute for food because _‘he did not go through the trouble of lying for her so she disrespects it by coming across as a person who self-neglects basic needs’._ He hadn’t yet criticised her choice of clothing neither did he insinuate she smelt or was dirty. Just a matter of time, she supposes, although she made sure she was clean.

One that at the end of each day would ask her if she wanted to withdraw; if she did, he won’t convince her otherwise and that’d be the end of it.

She never did.

.

Fay Kipling.

That was the identity he gave her.

Kipling. As in Rudyard Kipling. There was no doubt that’s where he took inspiration. She learned that Damian rarely, if ever, did anything by chance. He was a deliberate individual, and he had deliberately chosen that name because her ‘dog’ is Bagheera.

It is wonderfully poetic.

And incredibly painful.

It is liberating, because the identity consolidates that she is no longer the Fay of Maysoon but Fay of that world. It is a prison, too because with a simple piece of paper, a falsified one at that, he had ripped away the veil of anonymity she had been hiding behind. She had wanted to stop being old Fay, and she succeeded in many ways. She had no idea who Fay Kipling was though.

She hasn’t been sure of whom she is for a long time.

He’d never know, but it made her cry.

Still, she accepted it.

.

On Wednesday, at five in the morning, he texted her a list with _thirteen_ different destinations, all scattered across a twenty-mile radius. None of them in the lower, poorer ends though, thankfully. Three of the destinations required to cross over to Burnside, which ate at least two hours of their day, for no other reason but deliver some envelopes she had to collect from the museum. She didn’t look inside; a good thing too, because she later found they were nothing else but invoices they had already received by email.

She wondered whether it was worth asking Bagheera to attack him. Just a tiny bit, enough to scratch that smug look off his face. It had been a long time since anyone’s made her feel that scandalised or incensed, but Damian Wayne was particularly good at it.

Fay could tell most of the tasks have been purposefully given to her to test her determination, at least until that point. They ranged from going to a print shop to get several design proposals for flyers to travelling to a catering company where she had to give a very confused woman details on the inaugural event planned on 1st of October. All those trips could have been easily done via phone or email rather than having her running back and forth. They had to return to the museum three times alone just to return the flyers, some documents from Gotham Middle School she had to pick up and finally, to report to Damian in early afternoon on her progress.

She really disliked him that day; she had come close to withdrawing because it did not feel a challenge—he was ridiculing her, humiliating her just because she dared having morals and not accepting his money. 

Yet when she arrived in the conference room on the sixth floor, Alfred was there waiting for her, along with the hot scent of food, to tell her that Damian couldn’t make it – how unsurprising- but there was some beautifully roasted chicken waiting for her and beef for Bagheera.

“Are…is this a…joke?’’ She asked, suddenly feeling like crying because she was tired, and her canvas shoes had hurt her ankles and she was quite certain her toes were bleeding from all the walking. She was hungry, and thirsty and she felt like such an idiot for allowing someone else – again – push her around like that.

“Not at all.’’ Alfred put her hands on her shoulder, as a comforting gesture. “Master Damian has mentioned you tend to forget about eating, so I thought perhaps you’d like a break now that your tasks are finished?’’

“I, um…. okay.’’ She had made sure Bagheera that day, but she had indeed, not eaten enough and she had bouts of dizziness and nausea throughout the day. Her head was hurting, too.

Bagheera was not as tired or affected by the all the running about, as he had the energy supplies and stamina of well…. not a dog. Not even close. She only had food in the morning which consisted of a peanut butter and jam sandwich made by Mack and two apples. While she sat down, grateful the pressure was finally off her feet and she savoured each bite of Alfred’s delicious cooking, she glanced at her phone at the last message she received.

‘ _Ensure that you have returned at the museum by four. Do not be late, or else you suffer the consequences.’_

Damian Wayne was a tyrant.

But he wasn’t just _that_.

Next day, however, she made sure she ate better.

.

She’d always try the gym first and if it turned out to not be an option, they’d walk to the Gotham Academy, which was, unfortunately several miles away. Bag didn’t require to be cleaned as regularly but with the increased workload, she had found herself not wanting to go a day without washing herself. She never really stayed at the library anymore.

She had enough reading to do back at the attic.

.

She wouldn’t say she slept better, per se because she barely slept the first three days of the week, trying to stay on top of the reading list, not wanting to give Damian an excuse to _take off points_. She had no idea how many points she had or if there was a target, but why risk it? From Wednesday, he had stopped texting her after midnight, even if she stayed awake past that to keep reading. She did get four to five hours of sleep, and the next day he wouldn’t text until six.

It was some…improvement.

The nightmares would still torture her, and she’d still wake up in the middle of the night because of them or because of the chaos echoing through the streets.

Still, she felt different, if only a little bit.

Less like someone going through the motions.

More like someone who was determined to see the day through because it meant she’d survived his insane tasks.

She even felt something akin to pride.

.

Bag enjoyed the challenge more than she did as he had the opportunity to tap into his reserves of energy far better than previously. She made a mental note to stimulate him more, regardless of what the outcome of the challenge was. Fay allowed him to change the routes, turning their running sessions into an obstacle course. A few times, they even split apart—just on opposite sides of the street, racing each other. One time she even allowed herself to give in the bubbling energy in her veins and make her way through or over buildings, rather than just keeping the streets.

She wasn’t sure when she last felt that kind of rush of adrenaline without it being fear based.

Bag was happy. For the first time in a long time, Fay felt like her old self even if just for that one instance.

His man-cub was still there, underneath the fear and anxieties and guilt. 

.

Damian watched the red dot zig zag through Gotham every day. He knew where she was at any moment of the day.

He shamelessly took advantage of it.

.

Competition can be cut-throat. It can push people to rely on underhanded or unethical tactics, because the desire to win can corrupt one’s principles and morals. Fay has never been particularly competitive. She wanted to be better, even before her parents died but rather than developing a sense for winning over others to attain her goals, she was more likely to blame herself for her ineptitude. Then her parents died, and if she’d ever been in any unspoken or deliberate competition with others, she had already lost. 

She would work hard, harder than anyone else would, but she did not have the ruthlessness others possessed. She had been blind of course, to the extent that others would go to win and once that veil of ignorance had been lifted, she realized that in a way she was crippling herself by holding onto her principles. It wasn’t as if she’s never cheated – mainly for Master Tora’s written tests - and she had been taught to take advantage of a loophole if presented with one, but she’d never be able to do so at the expense of another.

Caleb Stratford, one of the candidates she’s seen a few days earlier, was exactly the type of individual who’d step on others to get where he wants. A sycophant who spent all his efforts in portraying himself as a trustworthy, capable person. His laughing buddy, the other man she saw in that hall that day, never showed up for the role anymore. Apparently accepted an even better position; Fay wonders if it was just that he didn’t pass the interview, regardless of how confident he looked on the day.

Rachel was too competitive, although not as ruthless based on Fay’s observations. The woman was sophisticated, composed and from the looks of it, very good at commanding authority when she needed it. She didn’t smile much but she wasn’t cold either; just very disciplined.

Helen was the outlier. She acknowledged the competition but didn’t allow it to define her week. She treated people with an enthusiasm that Fay had admittedly, assumed was false initially – _why would anyone be so happy all the time?_ \- but by Thursday she had changed her mind. Helen Wilmot was a genuinely positive person, who worked just as hard as Rachel and made herself liked just as Caleb did, just by being herself. A bit gullible, maybe and a few times, the time spent away from workforce had disadvantaged her, but her perseverance was admirable.

Fay really liked her. She wished she could be like that---keep her head up regardless of the condescending looks or cruel whispers or being told she shouldn’t be here. Because some did say that, not to Helen’s face but Fay heard them, because they often ignored her presence, even if with Bag by her side, they thought it inconsequential if she heard it or perhaps they didn’t care. 

She’s not young enough. She’s too friendly, nobody should treat others with such familiarity. It was unprofessional. She should be more composed. She smiled too much. She didn’t smile enough. She dressed too informally; perhaps she shouldn’t be there if she can’t afford it? She doesn’t understand business because she is a mother.

The emotion-not-to-be-spoken of always bubbled under her veins whenever she’d catch the whispers. Because she might have as well been back in Maysoon; human nature was all the same, regardless the worlds, she’d think irately. The bracelets would get slightly warm and remind her she shouldn’t feel that way. She _can’t_. She didn’t fight back when the whispers were about her, so why get involved?

Because her parents would have. Because she can almost imagine her mother tear down anyone who bullied someone like Helen, she can imagine Caleb not standing a chance against her father’s calm wit.

Because that’s what’s right, they’d say. If you’re able to, you help a person if they deserve it, not stand back and watch. If you’re not able, well, you still think about it, see if there is a way. There might even be people who don’t deserve the help, too. That’s how the world gets its light, even if it will never be just light. After all, one could say not all the men and women who came through Dana’s soup kitchen deserved the help? Some had made bad choices throughout their life; not all could be justified by an unfortunate upbringing.

Which is why on Thursday, Fay offered to help Helen even though she had her own workload, even though it wasn’t any of her business. It was a cruel world out there, and there’d be other Helen’s out there who will lose to men and women like Caleb. But Fay happened to know that Helen, and she happened to be there, so she could not stand back regardless of her anxieties. She and Bag were welcomed in her small but warm home, where the two seven-year old boys were ecstatic to finally meet ‘wolf guardian’, because apparently Helen had talked to them about her and Bag and how loyal he was to her. Bagheera acted as if he disliked the attention, but she knew he was rather flattered for being called that way.

It was the closest thing to the truth.

Helen’s family had little, and they struggled financially, and they lived in a rundown house that constantly had issues with plumbing and leaks and insulation. Yet her husband, despite being wheelchair bound, cracked jokes the entire time she was there making her smile several times. He and Helen loved each other dearly, as much as her parents did and Fay stood in their cluttered, old living-room helping Hannah put together drawings and boards for her final presentation.

Every candidate was meant to present their vision on ‘why the museum?’, which would then be marketed heavily for weeks, if not months. It would not only give the candidates a winning piece following their week of trial, but the exposure they’d receive after would significantly impact their careers. Helen admitted the money would help her family, but she didn’t speak as much about it as she did about her dream to be in a position where she could work with people _and_ be surrounded by art and science.

Helen was like Dana, then, albeit very different personalities.

The world was a dark place.

But beacons could be found, still.

Just like the one in Maysoon, whom for months after that night, had no longer been turned on. 

.

She did not have a Bad Day, that week.

Small panic attacks, yes. Nightmares, yes. Self-criticism? Almost always. 

But no Bad Days where she wished she was dead because she couldn’t bear the pain.

.

_‘Why the museum?’_

Damian wanted her to answer that question as well, even if she wasn’t competing for any of the vacancies. They didn’t know, of course, that she wasn’t just a volunteer, the daughter of an obscure wealthy family that could roam free around the museum because she knew Damian, and well, you know rich kids. They do whatever they want. It makes her dizzy when she thinks that she’s pretending to be rich when she’s pretending to be poor when she’s not.

She spent hours agonizing over the question, because Damian had indicated he’ll expect her to be original, which meant he might judge her answer against the candidates – even if they’re more qualified or experienced. Not to mention they had the advantage of being from that world and Gotham itself. 

Then, on Friday morning, she had watched Dana through the pass-through walk around the tables, checking in on everyone in the canteen. There were twenty-odd people, most of whom came there almost every day, but Dana still stopped by each and one of them, making small talk. She wasn’t as cheerful as Helen or as loud, but she listened, asked questions, smiled and made others smile in return.

Fay had to look away because Dana was suddenly reminding her of her mother.

That’s when she got the idea.

She only had three days. Damian didn’t stop quizzing her, and she had also promised to help Helen again that afternoon, but she vowed she’ll try. She had no idea how well she was doing with anything she’d completed so far because Damian only ever told her when she did something wrong. She could have already failed, so she might as well go through with an idea that was close to her heart, that _she_ would have approved of.

She might have to use her emergency funds, after all. She’ll feel disappointed and guilty and beat herself up.

But the sense of purpose she felt was worth it.

.

Fay wasn’t sure whether all recruitment was the same in that world, but in that setting, it was borderline insane. Rochester came across as a mild-mannered man, calm and always speaking in low tones; she was starting to think he was just as tyrannical as Damian. He discreetly had pitted the candidates against one another by giving them the task of coming up with a proposal of how the inauguration night should look like. It had to be thorough, from the catering company to the decorations. The guest list had already been provisionally compiled, and it would see high-profile members of Gotham attend, along with some academics and artists, whose presence would elevate the museum’s image even more. The select journalists meant to attend will certainly take care of that.

Fay knew Helen struggled that week, between the event planning and the other presentation, whilst also looking after her children and husband. He had psychical therapy to attend, and she still had to attend her late part-time job at a local supermarket to ensure the bills were paid, because the disability and dependents checks weren’t enough. They also had significant medical bills that they were still paying, so Helen would babysit other children too or she’d get odd jobs now and then.

The presentation for Monday was on the right track, but Helen had difficulty organising the one for the inauguration. So, on Friday, that’s what Fay did instead – she finished earlier at the soup kitchen and rushed to help Helen at the caretaking company where she was meant to choose the design and decorations for the inauguration. The other two candidates had already handed done their part earlier in the week, and the deadline was five in the afternoon, that day. 

It wasn’t just time that was their enemy, as it turned out. Helen’s guest list file was gone; one of her boys had accidentally deleted it while playing on the laptop she stored it. Without a guest list, they did not who chose what, or how they were meant to be seated, two elements that no candidate could modify because the guests have already RVSP’d weeks earlier. The catering company, too, had been given a large deposit and the Monday after, they’d be given the greenlight on which design they’d go with. It was short notice, but Fay assumed that Wayne Enterprises had something to do with how flexible they were being, despite being apparently a very sought-out organization.

It was the first time Fay had seen the woman’s optimism falter. She hadn’t had the time to check the file throughout the week, far too preoccupied with other tasks and her family, and had paid a price for it. If she went to Rochester about it, not only she’d come across as unreliable, but she might even embarrass herself.

Fay knew what that felt like. Unfortunately, the presentation had to be completed based on a series of criteria, including but not limited to having details on how the guests will be accommodated. They weren’t even sure what the exact number was at that point.

“Oh, duckie.’’ Helen sighed, as they both sat down on a bench outside the caretaking company. “It’s best if we count our losses for the day. The other presentation might be just enough.’’

It wasn’t fair.

Her phone buzzed and she resisted the urge to throw the phone away. Damian hadn’t stopped quizzing her. The world could be in flames, and he probably still would.

Ignoring it for the time being, even if she knew it instigated his ire if she took more than a few minutes to answer, she thought about the events her family planned and how flawless they’d be. Well, maybe not always flawless, she just hadn’t been affected by things like food disasters or wrong invites sent out because she was not directly involved or affected. She had to attend horrendous lessons on event and guest management, of which most she had tuned out or skipped out on (courtesy of her own parents indulging as well). But there were some events that had been particularly memorable. Ones that her mother used to organise, for purposes perhaps not that different than the vision of the museum…hm.

“Mrs. Wilmot…?’’ The woman looked up at her when she jumped off the bench, because standing up helped with thinking. “…You said something about the guest list? That it’s …. exclusive?’’

“Oh. Yes, dear. Rumours are that quite a few of Gotham’s most generous philanthropists are attending. Artists and…some University folks.’’ The woman didn’t seem to think that ‘exclusive’ guests might include Fay’s made-up family so the girl didn’t say anything. Helen had asked her about her parents earlier that week, how come they were never around and if she was lonely, but Fay just told her that her parents were busy people. Like Dana, the woman didn’t push any further neither did she treat Fay any differently just because she knew Damian or might be the daughter of someone important. Rachel did that---she tried to engage Fay in unnecessary small talk, not maliciously but not entirely genuine either, so the girl avoided her quite often. Caleb just plainly disliked her—probably because Bagheera had snarled at him a few times, so he knew that approaching her wasn’t optional.

“But—but no other people? I mean…. regular people?’’

Helen’s brows furrowed. “I can’t be too sure, not without seeing the full guest list. I don’t believe so.’’ The woman’s eyes lit up, as she caught on what Fay was thinking. “It is a shame, isn’t it? Oh, but I suppose that’s how these things work. There are events planned for visitors, though, planned in the first weeks after opening.’’

Not good enough, perhaps. She thought about her mother’s events, then she thought about Dana and her own mission; and how people seemed to come together in those places. Not always, but most days they did.

“…maybe there can be a buffet?’’

“A buffet?’’ The woman repeated curiously. “Oh, so you mean we wouldn’t have to worry about who gets what food. Not a bad idea, but we don’t know who the guests are or how many.’’

“So, we…order everything?’’ Rich people can be fussy, but they won’t turn down thousands of dollars of food if put in front of them. “What---what if we had other people too?’’

“You want to invite more people?’’ Helen asked with a mixture of amusement and confusion. Fay nodded. “I mean, this—this whole thing, the new design and um, the restructuration—they are all for the people of Gotham, right? The poor…and the rich, even if---even if only rich people are attending the night.’’

Helen’s lips pursued. “I think I understand. You’re saying the inauguration shouldn’t be just about the people donating money or artists or scientists. But people who might visit the museum.’’ Fay smiled slightly. Mood lifting, the woman’s face brightened again. “VIP members!’’ She said suddenly. “Oh, how good would it be if the most loyal of our visitors received an invite as well? It would certainly make them spread the word to other people.’’

Fay hadn’t thought of that herself, but it was a great idea. Words spread fast, after all. The journalists might even be inclined in writing a favourable article about inauguration night, but many citizens might look at the newspaper and think that the museum is not for them; particularly people who are too busy with working or taking care of their families.

She spent several hours helping Helen, even if it cut into her time for her own work and had missed on several Damian’s quizzes, whom was decidedly not happy.

She had seen the other proposal the woman put together, the one on ‘why the museum?’ and it was inspiring; so, she did not feel bad about increasing her chances of loss if it meant helping Helen.

She had back-up plans and another world waiting for her. Helen did not. 

.

_7 th of September, 11:02_

The week was over. Damian was expecting her at the museum at lunch, with her own presentation ready and his evaluation completed.

She didn’t think she’d win but she felt…satisfied. The bad thoughts could torment her later, but she had enjoyed helping Helen out, and doing her own research and learning so much, even if it was done figuratively at knife point. She had not managed to get as many accounts as she would have liked as people in Gotham were suspicious folks. They did not want to open their door and respond to her questions just because she was a child. They were even less inclined to do so when they saw the wolf-like shadow following her around.

They got doors slammed shut in their faces, hot water thrown at them, came across a very suspicious leery man that Bag scared into peeing himself when he tried to touch her, and they were chased by a police officer when he assumed they were part of the group of children that spray painted his car. Ultimately, she told Dana what it is she was trying to do, mentioning it was for a free submission at the museum, feeling stupid for not doing it sooner because the woman was golden. Fay got hers, Macks and Robby’s account, Gloria and Ben’s too. Thirteen more from the men and women that came through the soup kitchen. Then Dana drove her to her neighbourhood and took her to the nicest of the residents, whom were happy to respond to her questions.

On Sunday, Robby brought her his laptop telling her it would be a shame if her hard work was ruined just because she had written everything down by hand. She spent the entire writing and rewriting and paraphrasing and getting frustrated when she couldn’t find her words. She had eventually fallen asleep next to the laptop and woke up sometime after dawn. She ended up rewriting most of the previous work and around a quarter to ten, she rushed downstairs to ask Robby where she could get her work printed.

He copied the file into an USB key and printed it out for her at a nearby shop. Papers tucked in a plastic folder, she and Bagheera walked down to the coffee shop halfway between the soup kitchen and the museum, where she meant to meet Helen, who insisted – despite Fay’s protests – to treat her to breakfast. Fay had no intention of letting her pay because the woman had already repaid her in home-baked delicious pastries the whole week, but ultimately agreed to go.

The world is an unfair place, however and it certainly made no exceptions for people like Helen.

When she and Bagheera arrived at the coffee shop, she knew something was very, very wrong because Helen saw her arrive and did not even react. No smile, no recognition in her eyes, just saw through her. She was seated by a table right at the entrance, looking out the window with distant eyes. When was it ever a time that Helen did not smile? Even when they experienced the issues with the guest list, the woman still tried to find a way to see the glass half full. Bagheera, too, felt the change in mood, curiously watching the woman through the window while Fay entered the coffee shop, an uncomfortable knot in her stomach. She would have taken a moment to inhale the scent of coffee and croissants, but all that faded in the background when she saw the woman’s red-rimmed eyes and downturned mouth. Her hands were shaking around the cup of coffee she was holding. Tilting her head, she looked at Fay and smiled, but it wasn’t heart-felt, barely reaching her eyes.

There was a red mark on her face. Someone had slapped her…?

“Mrs. W-Wilmot---what happened?’’ Fay asked with increasing horror.

The woman brushed a hand dismissively at her, while the other reached to wipe her eyes. There were no tears, but she had been crying before Fay arrived. “Oh, duckie, it’s just one of those days, you know, that God throws at you. Testing you.’’

It had nothing with the Gods, Fay thought. Gods do not respond to people’s pain. She would know.

“I---I stopped at the store, you see, just a couple of blocks down. Just a small one, you know as I wanted to grab some fresh yeast, to bake something for my boys tonight. These rowdy teenagers---they walked and—and— ‘’ The woman’s brows furrowed in disbelief. “They started destroying _everything_ , waving around a knife…and asking people to give their wallets.’’ Helen paused, in favour of taking a few sips of the coffee. “I—I didn’t protest of course.’’ She leaned and grabbed Fay’s hand, to pat it gently a few times. Her trembling hands were cold. The weather had started cooling down as they moved to September, but it wasn’t _that_ cold yet. Helen was still trying to process the entire ordeal. “Fay…I am sure your parents are really good parents. But word of advice, n-never—fight back okay? If you’re in a position like that. It’s best to just give them what they want. Your life is not worth some jewellery and money.’’ How ironic. Her parents would likely tell her the exact opposite. They wouldn’t want her to risk her life, of course, but they also wouldn’t expect her to be as defenceless as Helen was.

It wasn’t right, hearing those words. She had grown up in a world where fighting was as a natural element of life, and while never inclined for it unless necessary, she had accepted it that battles will take place. Battles _have_ taken place already, intellectually and psychically. After that, she failed most nights. She had given up already, many times, hadn’t she? Like Helen suggested, she didn’t fight back. But it wasn’t because she feared for her life. It was because she had lacked the strength or determination, or she had simply thought she deserved to lose.

Fay’s wide eyes flitted to the bag the woman had propped by the windowsill. One of the handles was broken and she couldn’t see inside but---

“Mrs. Wilmot—‘’ she started slow, blood turning cold at the thought that just passed her head and the woman let go of her hand as she glanced towards the bag. “Where is your suitcase? With the---with the proposal?’’

“Oh dear. Unfortunately---they took that too.’’ The woman said tightly, and Fay’s worst doubts were confirmed. “I—It was in my car, you see. Unfortunately, they… took my car keys, too.’’

She didn’t protest, Helen had mentioned. Yet they slapped her. They roughed her up – Fay’s eyes moved to the woman’s blazer, which was coming apart at the seams on the left shoulder -, they weren’t satisfied with just robbing her although she had so little. They had to make her hurt in other ways too.

Just like _they_ did with Fay.

The world is an unfair place. It is an illusion to think otherwise. Fay was willing to bet the other candidates hadn’t been as much stress or hiccups that week; yet it was Helen, with her optimism and loving family and existing struggles, that faced additional hiccups.

Not that Caleb or Rachel deserved it, even if they were unpleasant. But there was no balance in the world, was it? One person is not exempt from further suffering just because they’ve already experienced heartache.

“My apologies, duckie. You do not need to hear such issues—you are just a child.’’ No, no she wasn’t. Nobody was just a child in her home world, she thinks, not when they learn about death early on in life. “I—I was so shocked, I just needed to have a sit. They took my phone, too so I had no way of contacting anybody. The lady here—‘’ The woman glanced towards the barista at the other end of the room. “—she was kind enough to allow me to call my husband and let him know. We—were meant to pay rent today, you see, so…’’

Fay’s knuckles clenched, hard and the animosity that filled her vein was like acid, seething and burning and all consuming. She felt the hotness raise to the collar of her neck, to her face and ears and this time it wasn’t embarrassment. It was that emotion, one which not need be named because giving it name was giving it power, when it already was so incredibly corruptive that it changed her from inside out. It made her react in ways that were harmful to herself and others. It was the reason why she had to wear those wretched bracelets.

The world is unfair, she reminded herself. But why did it have to keep being unfair to people like Helen when they were trying to better their and others lives too? She and her family may be an optimistic bunch but the truth is the medical bills will catch up with them eventually, her husband’s psychical therapy won’t always be paid for, and her children will not have even a quarter of what Fay did.

Why did it have to be that day of all days, when it was her chance to turn her life around? To offer her family a better life, her husband better medical care, her children a better future. When it was her chance to follow a long-lost dream. When she clearly loved the museum and helping people and wanted to pay forward her kindness just like Dana did.

Fay had allowed her misfortunes to define her for months, she had wallowed in them – she still did -, so she earned the additional heartache because she failed to deal with what happened and move on. But Helen? The woman was a ball of sunshine who saw the best in people, who saw the glass half full, who saw the world as a whole beacon with some dark corners, rather than the opposite as Fay did.

The world could go ahead and be unfair to Fay, but it did have to try and extinguish the light of people like Helen, too?

Yes, of course. Why not? Her parents were the best people she knew, and the world did not care. It still took them away. As if that hadn’t been enough, Fay still had to suffer additionally after.

But.

_But._

If you can help someone, especially a deserving person, you should try, her parents also used to say. Even if the world is cruel and unfair to you, don’t let it change you. They had known incredible suffering too, and still believed in that philosophy.

She could use pain as a crutch when it came to herself, but not others.

Failing their teachings any further would be unforgivable. 

The woman unaware of the mounting agitation she felt, kept talking. Not in that cheerful, enthusiastic way she always did but in the way that said she was trying to process what happened because she was still trying to find positives. There were none. She and her husband were already late on rent, having invested money in Helen being able to get that role: nanny for the children because she’d finish late at the museum, gas money because she drove longer around town, a second-hand laptop so she could write her work. A laptop that was now gone, along with the little money they already had and a car they’ll likely not see again. As old as it was, it helped her take her children to school and her husband for psychical therapy.

“Mrs. Wilmot…’’ Fay started tightly. “What time is your presentation?’’

“Oh. I was second in so—um, let me think, oh! About twelve, dear. I am the first one to go in. You reminded me—I should call Mr. Rochester and let him know I will have to withdraw---‘’

“ _No_.’’ The woman blinked in surprise, staring at Fay in silence. “You can’t withdraw. Your idea was good.’’ It was. Fay had helped her with the presentation boards for hours. She knew Damian’s vision of the museum, and she believed Helen had managed to offer exactly the type of input he said he needed. She didn’t know what the other candidates’ proposals looked like, but Helen had her experiences, her struggles to draw from and she had done exactly that, using them as fuel to come up with something original and heartfelt. If there was anyone who would successfully lead the projects at the museum, and not lose track what’s best for the visitors, it would be her. The presentation for the inauguration had already been sent via email Friday afternoon, minutes before the deadline. 

“Oh, Fay, that’s really sweet of you to say.’’ The woman pursued her lips. “But everything was—in my car. They won’t allow extensions, so…Don’t worry about it, dear. I am sure there’ll be other opportunities.’’

Unlikely. Not on that scale. Not when Helen would be too busy to deal with the fallout of them not having money to pay rent, or medical bills or her children’s education. That job could have changed her life, but her desire to be there wasn’t just financially based. She genuinely loved the museum.

“Go to the museum.’’ Fay said firmly. “ _Please_ , Mrs. Wilmot.’’ She insisted when the woman opened her mouth to protest, a look of puzzlement crossing her features. “You are going to present your idea today.’’ One way or another, she had to. “ _You are._ ’’

“But Fay…. everything is gone. The police---even if they decide to look for such an old car, it’ll take days—and my laptop was there. The boards too—‘’

“Please, Mrs. Wilmot.’’ Fay said hotly, and grabbed her hand, just like she did moments ago. “You have to. I will help you.’’

Helen was visibly taken back by the sudden fierceness and shook her head gently. “Sweetie, I know you’re trying to help me. I am sorry if I scared you---‘’ She had no idea what scary truly was. 

“It’s—it’s not that, Mrs. Wilmot.’’ Fay cut her off and the woman stared at her wide eyed. “And---and I think the world is…awful. I mean, not always because---because there are good people, too. Like you and your—husband. You always help people and you don’t expect anything in return.’’ Fay’s hand was feverish in comparison with Helen’s. “So, you deserve help as well. Please, Mrs. Wilmot—‘’ she begged. “Please let me try.’’

“How—what are you talking about? What…do you mean try?’’

Fay let go of her hand and reached into the pocket of her trousers where her phone was. Pulling it out, she sat it on the table next to the woman’s coffee cup. “0303 is the code.’’ The date they arrived in that world. “Call your husband and tell him that you are going to the museum. So, please go there. You have to let the other candidates go in before you so there’s—there’s more time.’’

“Time for what…?’’

“I will just grab this, Mrs. Wilmot—‘’ Fay lunged over the table, and grabbed the bag from the windowsill. There was nothing in it except for a lipstick, some napkins and a half-eaten jellybean bag. “—Bag will be able to use this.’’ She turned around on her feet and pushed the door of the coffee shop open, stepping in the street where Bagheera was waiting, forcing passers-by to give him strange looks from apprehension to amusement. The red cap and scarf around his neck did little to hide his size, but he did not look quite as intimidating. Confused, the woman followed her out, stopping in the threshold and watching as Fay tilted the bag to Bagheera’s nose.

He picked up the scent in moments and raising to his feet, he started sniffing the air and the ground around them. Then he glanced at her with a curt growl. Found it.

She turned towards the woman and handed her the purse back. “Mrs. Wilmot, I know someone who can help.’’ There wasn’t. “So please,’’ she insisted again. “Please, just wait at the museum. Outside, where the bench is.’’

“No, no, wait a second--What are you talking about? It’s dangerous---‘’

“I can get you help.’’ Fay interrupted, lying. “One of the---one of the people with masks that protect Gotham.’’

Helen stared at her in awe. “What? You—you can do that?’’

“I think so. So please let me try. If I am not back at the museum in time for your presentation, then you can tell Mr. Rochester that you need to withdraw.’’

Before the woman could open her mouth and protest again, Bagheera started running, having caught the scent he was looking for and Fay followed.

.

_11:57_

She had no idea how to contact any of Gotham’s masked people. She knew about the Batsymbol, but that only ever appeared at night and even then, it wasn’t as if she had access to it.

 _No_. This time she could not rely on others. She had to do it on her own.

Bagheera tracked the scents almost five miles away from where the coffee shop had been, dangerously close to East End Gotham. Not a good zone to be in, one they avoided religious since their early days in Gotham even before they learned from Dana and Mack how rife it was with crime. Bagheera had sensed the dangers early and had made them give it a wide berth.

It was a group of boys, slightly older than Robby, loitering around Helen’s car – _Ford, was the manufacturer called apparently_ – with bottles of booze and cigarettes in their hands. The car had been parked on the curb of a street, in an area with rundown apartment blocks, with piles of garbage littering the streets and unsavoury-looking characters that prompted Fay to pull her hood on. September had brought chilly winds along with it and Fay took advantage of the changes in weather to dress in more layers.

Crouching down behind a car several hundred feet down the street from where the boys were, she and Bag watched as two of them stumbled away into the streets, roughhousing with one another leaving the other two by the car talking.

“Are you sure it’s them?’’

“ _Rgggg_.’’ Definitely.

They had done that many times over, mostly as part of tests and a few times on official low ranked missions. She and Bag have always been particularly in sync with one another, so it came easy to them switching to stealth mode. Well, Bag was stealthy anyway. 

Okay, so returning the woman’s car too would have been ideal but she’d likely not be able to do so. Her portfolio with the presentation boards should still be inside, though. The laptop and an envelope -presumably with Helen’s rent- was in the arms of one of the boys leaning against the car.

They were ready to make their move – better to attack them by surprise and in unconstrained space – when a beefy, tall man showed up from the apartment block to their left. He looked every bit like the type of man capable of crushing other’s bones and the teenagers were clearly afraid, because they immediately straightened and walked over to him like dogs being beckoned over. The laptop and envelope were handed to him, before he barked at them to get inside _‘because boss wants to see them’_. Bagheera growled softly and Fay quickly saw why. He had a gun tucked at his waist.

Damn it.

Her valiance faltered, anxiety creeping back in.

_Focus, Fay. Assess the situation, evaluate the risks._

If they went inside that apartment block, it was likely there’d be others with guns. They had no idea how outnumbered they were, already five to two, and they were on enemy’s territory, unfamiliarity with the building’s layout disadvantaging them. She wasn’t as fast as she used to be, or as strong, so Bagheera would inadvertently have to do all the work if they went in blind. Most times she was too anxious to fight back, and even if her instincts kicked in, the bracelets rendered her useless. She’d have to rely on combat skills she hadn’t ever excelled at particularly and that she had left to rust for a year and a half.

It was incredibly stupid and reckless.

Just like going into a burning building.

They did anyway.

.

_12:07_

Fourth floor.

The apartment block was—well, as filthy as the rest of that area. The scent made Bagheera retch a few times, and Fay tried not to think about the sticky or wet surfaces she had stepped on a few times as they climbed the stairs. No way they were ever going to take that screeching metal box that passed off for an elevator. They passed a few inhabitants – a couple of children playing in the hall, a couple fighting loudly on the landing of the second floor, an elderly man in a wife beater and boxer shorts smoking cigarettes on a chair in front of his apartment – but they hardly paid them attention. Bagheera tracked the scent down to an apartment on the fourth floor, third down and they watched the beefy man from earlier stand in front of the door, arms crossed and back straight. He was guarding the apartment, that explained the gun.

Raucous noise came from inside the apartment and Fay’s nostrils were invaded with the scent of chemicals and alcohol and something…woody? No wonder Bagheera had felt like vomiting, it probably was nauseating to him.

They pulled away behind the wall, adrenaline and fear making Fay’s hands shake as she counted slowly on her fingers, palms up turned towards her paladin. He growled softly when she lifted her fifth finger.

Okay. So, fifth people inside the apartment. Four teenagers and someone else. Six with the guard. They were outnumbered. Old teachings dictated a diversion was required. She had no weapons, no access to her flux. The laptop and the money wouldn’t be left out of sight, so even if she did get inside, what was she gonna do? Just take it and leave. Bagheera, for all his prowess, could not take all of them down—what if they had guns and knives too?

She wasn’t reliable enough, strong enough.

Maybe she should just turn back, and they can leave before they attract unwanted attention. She could tell Helen she failed, that thieves could not be found. It was the reasonable, practical solution. She had _tried_ to get her stolen items back; she had made no promises she’d succeed.

But.

_But._

Even if that world allowed her to pretend being someone she wasn’t, years of their teaching did not just go away. They shined brighter than her fear, as they sometimes did. The anger, too was there, still. She tried not to think about it because nothing good ever came out of her acknowledging it. It was like feeding a hungry beast. Down the hall they were hiding, she saw a woman struggle to close the door of her apartment, jigging her keys in the lock and muttering profanities. When she was finally successful, she got in the elevator – how brave of her – and Fay heard it move downwards.

Hm.

Let’s see how bright those teachings really shined.

.

_12:21_

The guard in front of Apartment 23D tapped his fingers across the other hand, in boredom, as he kept them crossed in front of his navel. The boys inside were far too loud for their own good but the Boss didn’t seem to mind, so he didn’t say anything. He was there for protection, not to express his opinions, anyway. Not that anybody seemed to care in that shitty building.

Something glinted down the hall, the sudden shine of light hitting him in the eyes. _What the fuck?_

It was a boy. Or a girl? He couldn’t tell but it was a child, dressed in baggy clothes with a hood on and holding a---mirror? —using it to reflect the light from behind his shoulder, back in his eyes.

_Little shit._

“Hey, kid!’’ He snarled. “Scram out of here. Don’t make me come there!’’ He stepped slightly forward, assuming an intimidating stance to show he wasn’t joking but the girl shined the light in his eyes again. Gritting his teeth, he started moving closer towards where the four hallways intersected each other and that seemed to be enough because the troublesome child decided to run away, down to his left. He stopped, rolling his eyes.

Tch. He hated children.

Something slid down the floor, rolling down towards his feet. Multiple somethings.

Rolled…newspapers? They were lit up at both ends, white smoke raising quickly above them and filling the hall. It burned his eyes, clogged his lungs and the guard stumbled back, coughing violently.

In the thick mist that clouded the space around him, making it impossible to see clearly, a shadow moved.

A very large, _growling_ shadow.

His hand went to his gun out of instinct, but he was too slow. That _thing_ jumped on him, pushing his weight backwards as if it was nothing, sending him down on the floor. Something kicked him to the temple, and the world went dark.

.

_12:25_

It worked. _It worked!_

The adrenaline rush pushed her to keep going with her plan, because it was _now or never_. With a scarf she found in the other apartment, wrapped around her face and shielding her from the toxic fumes of ammonium nitrate, she moved towards the end of the hall, opening the window there. From inside 23D heard a man’s voice demanding that someone check where the smoke was coming from, so she quickly ran back down the hall, making a sharp right turn, where she crouched down.

She glanced across from her, where she knew Bagheera was even if she couldn’t see him properly, holding one end of the cables that she braided tightly together. She grabbed the other end, carefully wrapping it around her hand but didn’t pull back. Not yet.

The smoke hadn’t cleared just yet, so when the door opened and judging by the sound of footsteps, two of the boys stepped out, they were immediately assailed by the dizzying fumes. They also wouldn’t be able to see clearly ahead of them, much less the trap waiting for them where the halls met in a cross. She listened as they stumbled in the smoke-filled area, coughing and retching and expressing their confusion about where it was coming from, so Fay looked over at Bag, more of a shadow himself in the smoke.

“ _Now, Bag_!’’ She pulled her end of rope towards her and Bagheera pulled towards his, turning it into a taut line and causing the two teenagers to trip over it and fall on the ground.

Quickly, Bagheera jumped on their back, forcing them to stay down and Fay acted as fast as possible, wrapping the cables around their ankles, their arms and neck, hog-tying them together. One of them started yelling but Fay quickly wrapped his mouth as well, as Bagheera latched his teeth onto the cables at their feet, to drag them down one of the halls where the smoke hadn’t reached yet. Ammonium nitrate was incredibly toxic, and while they were awful beings for what they have done, Fay did not want them to harm them in that manner. It was enough they were incapacitated for the time being. 

It went all well until that moment.

Because that’s when the man who had been inside the apartment, came out, yelling and ordering the remaining of his lackeys to check out the area. Said teenagers tried to attack Bagheera, although they looked terrified by her paladin’s form as he confronted them. He dodged and ducked swiftly the jerky movements they made with the knives, backtracking down the opposite hall. He knew he only had to disarm and incapacitate, not hurt any of them, so the two boys had no idea how much the paladin was holding back.

Unfortunately, even though the smoke was clearing from the hall, the cold draft carrying it outside, it had affected her too. Her eyes were burning, tearing up and the scarf around her face been effective in shielding her initially but while tying the two boys, she had managed to inhale enough smoke to disorient her. The room spun around her, and her reaction time was practically non-existent, because even though she saw the man appear at the crossing of the halls, looking murderous, her body refused to move accordingly. She was a sitting duck.

He did not hesitate to viciously slam her against the wall, and when he’d realized just how light she was, he started jostling her around like a ragdoll. She’s not sure because the world tilted continuously around her in those moments, but he had at some point pulled her down the hall towards his apartment. She pulled the scarf down, because blood had gathered in her mouth and the metallic taste made her wretch, red saliva splotching on the pavement.

On her hands and knees, she tried to gather her bearings, but her head throbbed, and her face felt raw. She felt rather than saw him approach her at an alarming speed, and her reflexes had kicked in finally, forcing her to ball up in order to protect her vital areas as he kicked her in the left-hand side. Curled in on herself, knees up and arms and hands angled over her chest and face, she couldn’t help but think how familiar it all felt.

_‘’Why you are alive when they’re all dead, you loser?’_

_‘Don’t let her get away.’_

_‘Let’s see if she begs for her life.’_

The man reached for her hoodie – where was her backpack? Was it even on her anymore? – he pulled her up as if she was made of paper. She was as limp as a doll, as he whirled her around, one muscled arm holding her in a rear choke and the free hand pressing the cold, sharp blade of his knife to her throat. She couldn’t see anything from her left eye, and her right one was blurry, but she’d recognize Bagheera’s form anywhere. She wasn’t sure what he did with the other two boys, but given he was not covered in blood, they either got scared away or he found other ways to incapacitate them. She could feel the anger rolling off him, though, as he slowly approached them, jaws parted in a snarl and pale blue eyes dark with fury and murderous intent. 

Of course.

Because Bagheera always protected her. Even back _then_. How did she repay him? By dragging him there in that world where he had to sleep in a cramped up space instead of the jungle; where he had to wait outside of stores and bear the fear of other people who saw him as a pet, although he is a thousand different things they’ll never be. He must spend his days accompanying her down the dirty streets of Gotham instead of roaming the wilderness of Maysoon and growing stronger.

He must put up with her Bad Days, and the moments of apathy, and her mood changes. He never once fails her. 

Yet, she does him. She stopped being his equal and had just reduced him to a guarding dog.

Something hot bubbled under her veins, like the magma of a volcano threatening to explode. The bracelets were there now to offer the control she lacked, but they did not keep that emotion at bay. That was all Fay’s continuous effort. In that moment, it wouldn’t have been enough to make her lose control, but it was enough to send a rush of adrenaline that dulled the pain and made her mind work faster.

The teachings shined through again.

 _When an opponent tries a rear choke, the defender can break the opponent’s grip with an elbow-strike to the solar plexus. The opponent’s air will be knocked out and they will be temporarily incapacitated by the pain and lack of oxygen._ Fay did not have enough strength, or the right height to elbow the man in that region but she did elbow his groin instead. Hard. _Once incapacitated, make sure the opponent will stay that way to ensure a safe escape, if an escape is what you want._ The man yowled, bending forward as he released her in favour of clutching his bruised crotch. The knife stayed in his hand and he managed to cut her along the cheek, superficially so, but she did not feel the pain as she did the wetness of a few drops of blood running down her skin.

 _Move. Move!_ She whirled on her feet; legs unsteady but relying on muscle memory to guide her. Facing the man, feet slightly apart, she rotated her hips and threw a cross at the man’s face. It was a weak one compared to what she was once capable of, but it still took him by the surprise making stumble onto the wall to her left, knife falling on the ground. She kicked it away, not once considering using it herself.

_‘Why are you alive when they’re all dead, you loser?’_

“You fucking bitch— _Argh!!!_ ’’ She brought her foot down right above his right knee, without hesitating. The move may have not broken his bone, but it certainly caused the man to crumble to the ground wailing in pain. He was not going to get up for a while.

She stumbled back herself, to lean against the wall because her burst of energy was suddenly over, leaving her trembling like a leaf. She stepped back and watched as Bagheera, for his own satisfaction, jumped towards the man, pushing him hard on his back, one paw swinging at his chest, sharp claws easily cutting through his clothes and flesh. The lacerations weren’t as deep as they could have been, would not even require stitches but they’ll certain be a painful reminder until they healed. The man was left in writhing in pain on the floor.

It took Fay a few moments to regain her composure, but Bagheera’s pushing his head against hers as a comforting gesture helped, and she held onto him tightly until she felt like she could breath properly again. They didn’t have much time. Alarmed by the smoke and the commotion, someone must’ve called the police, because they heard sirens echo outside, getting closer and closer to where they were.

They quickly rushed in the apartment, eyes fliting over the white powder on the table in the middle, knives, wallets and purses – _the teenagers clearly robbed people for a living_ – until she found Helen’s laptop. The envelope of cash was on the couch, next to a cigarette holder filled with ash and stubs and she quickly grabbed it. Bagheera brought her backpack from where it had fallen down the hall when the man grabbed her. She hesitated in leaving when she saw one of the wallets on the ground, open, showing the picture of a little girl inside.

She ended up bagging all the loot the thieves must’ve gotten from the store clients they robbed, before they finally left.

They used the fire exit at the back of the building to exit because she’d heard and seen residents come out of their apartments onto the halls below them. If they saw her and Bagheera, they’ll figure out they are responsible for the chaos. Bag checked the area once they were outside, before they came around the building, stopping behind the same car they did earlier while watching the group of boys. She pulled the scarf back around her neck, and her hoodie too, mostly to shield her beaten up face. If it looked anything like it felt, it would be a frightening sight.

They watched as a lone police officer walked towards the apartment block, not looking very enthusiastic as one of the residents approached him, wildly gesticulating towards the fourth floor, where the smoke had come through. Others joined in, circling around the officer who looked like he was struggling to contain their ire.

Keeping low and ignoring how her body started to ache now that the adrenaline was dying, they moved towards Helen’s car. She wouldn’t be able to return it to the woman – she had no idea how hard it would be to drive it anyway – but she had to grab the large portfolio and her suitcase, as battered and old as it was. She found them fallen on the backseat. Suitcase had been opened and rifled through, papers scattered everywhere, some ripped apart, others cruelly crumpled. She gathered all of them, shoving them inside the valise before jumping out, shutting the door discreetly. 

Careful that they weren’t seen by the residents or the police officer, they quickly departed that area.

It wasn’t over yet.

They still had to get to the museum on time.

.

_13:41_

They had run as fast as they could, taking short cuts and gliding down the streets unmindful of the people they startled along the way. For a moment, she had felt like in the jungle, except instead of natural obstacles there, she had to deal with people and confusing streets and loud vehicles cutting their path. She could feel the sweat drenching its way through her clothes, drops matting the hair at the back of her neck and sliding down her spine.

That wasn’t the problem, having to run in unfavourable conditions had been part of the training.

It was the injuries that slowed her done. The pain that flared on her left-hand side had been enough to make her stop and vomit, several times down a small alley. She told Bagheera to go ahead without her, to deliver the items but he tugged and nudged and pulled her along, encouraging her to make the last trek there.

The woman was waiting for them on the bench, outside, looking even more agitated than before. She must’ve been her hands through her hair because it looked wilder than at the coffee shop and her lipstick was smudged. Her husband was there, in his wheelchair, and it looked like they were debating what to do, as she kept glancing at her watch.

She couldn’t see Fay in that state. She’d know what happened; she’d call an ambulance or the police. Other people would get alerted by the commotion that’d ensue. Damian was very likely going to get her arrested himself if he knew what she did. He was the heir of Bruce Wayne, he had vouched for her, created a false identity. There was no way he’d get himself caught in that kind of scandal and she wouldn’t even blame him. Anticlimactically as it was, she had already lost the challenge. She was an hour late in turning in her proposal and that was not even accounting for all the texts she must have missed from him because she had given her phone to Helen.

She watched from behind the low fence of the small park near the museum, as Bagheera discreetly approached Helen and her husband from behind, to place the portfolio and suitcase underneath the bench. He was gone before they noticed him, and when it was finally 13:45, the woman stood up, feet brushing against the items. Fay couldn’t see their expressions or hear them, but judging on their body language, they were shocked. Helen had started crying too, and her husband patted her forearm, before gesturing for her to go in the museum.

Fay didn’t wait any further.

They walked away.

_She did not fail._

.

“Maybe…I should have allowed you to bite him.’’ Fay mumbled, and immediately regretted it because her upper lip stung ferociously. The man had split it open, not significantly, at least not from what she could tell when she glanced at her window reflection on the way back to the soup kitchen. It had stopped bleeding but her face—it did not look like her face anymore. So, hood on, and scarf raised over her nose, with one hand on Bag’s strong back, she limped all the way back.

She sprained her ankle, too and she can’t even remember how. Must’ve twisted it the wrong way or perhaps when she kicked the man; her body was not in shape so the movement she put it through that day had been incredibly strenuous. Still, she had worse. At least nothing was broken from what she could tell.

They took a detour, so nobody from the canteen would see them pass by and checking the narrow street behind it was empty, they discreetly made their way to the fire staircase. The curly dog that lived with her was waiting by the bins, as he always did when he was done roaming and doing his business. If she came back later in the day, he’d just hide in the box that Mack set up for him as a makeshift shelter. The cat preferred to go as it pleased, easily jumping from the window of the attic onto the ledge around the roof and then the fire staircase. The ferret rarely ever left, but she knew he could do the same, so at least she didn’t have to worry about them being stuck in the attic.

The dog followed them up the stairs.

Arriving on the third floor, she pushed the window up, allowing the dog to jump over first. Bagheera slid past her, suddenly and she assumed he was just being his protective self, but then she heard him growl just as she pulled herself onto the windowsill herself, by putting one knee over as slowly as possible because of the pain. She wasn’t sure if there was an area that didn’t hurt.

“Bag, why are you---‘’ She froze, like a prey that’s just realized they are being hunted, one hand clutching the window frame above her head and the other her aching side. The spacious dance room was in semi-darkness, as given the turn in weather, the light coming through the three windows on that floor did little in chasing the shadows away. Bagheera had stopped just by the window, backpack fallen at his feet as he assumed an attack stance, snarling soundlessly at the figure standing in the dark in a corner to her left. She could barely make him out, and if it hadn’t been for Bagheera, she wouldn’t have even noticed him, at how quiet he was. She couldn’t even hear his breathing. But she knew who it was even without having to touch Bagheera and understand what he felt. There were so many questions to be asked - why - how - when - why him again - but her mind could not process them fully. The sudden fear made her heart thud so loudly that it was surprising it wasn’t echoing in the stillness of that room. Her instincts were telling her to run because the boy was dangerous and he was finally showing it. “Are you incredibly stupid or just suicidal?’’ He snarled, stepping forward, allowing the light from one of the windows adjacent to hers cast away the shadows enveloping him.

His eyes were like chips of emerald; she had seen him irritated before, but never with such a thunderous look on his face. Even the small dog yelped, and quickly retreated away when he felt the anger rolling off the boy.

She had no energy to speak or offer explanations or run away.

Thankfully, she didn’t need to.

Because she blacked out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My apologies for any grammatical mistakes. I've been writing furiously since I had a few days off, and have a few chapters written in advance. The deeper I delve into the story, the more I need to remind myself to go back and proof-read the work before I post. 
> 
> I shall keep making minor amendments, re-reading through chapters with new eyes.


	7. Of signals, puzzles, and hidden threats

_“I could see why Archimedes got all excited. There was nothing finer than the feeling that came rushing through you when it clicked, and  
you suddenly understood something that had puzzled you. It made you think it just might be possible to get a handle on this old world after all.”_

― Jeannette Walls

.

.

.

_8 th of September _

She woke up to the sound of thick rain, the rhythmic pitter patter against glass soothing to her ears not unlike a mother’s soft lullaby. After the summer heat, the skies were finally breaking, unleashing what was certain to be days of torrential rains to make up for all the good weather the Gothamites have experienced.

Her face felt numb, and it took a few tries to get her eyelids to stay open. A deep grayish-blue coffered ceiling greeted her, and she stared at it unseeing as her foggy mind tried to process how she’d gotten in that foreign room. She would have panicked had it not been for how tranquil she felt; her body felt boneless, her muscles lax. It felt…like when the healers used to sedate her.

Hm. Maybe it would be better if she just went back to sleep.

But.

_How did I get here?_

Her memory slowly returned, as the drowsiness vanished. Helen, the thieves, going after them, then making it to the museum. She doesn’t remember much of the trip on the way back to the soup kitchen because she’d been in so much pain, but she does recall arriving on the third floor and…. Damian was there. Lurking in the shadows, silent and— _he was angry_. He had felt dangerous, like walking on a predator’s territory.

How did he know she’d be there? How did he track her?

Where did he bring her? She took a moment to admire her surroundings. The bed – which could have easily fitted four of her – was wrapped in dark blue and grey sheets, clearly coordinated with the heavy, rich fabrics of the curtains drawn away from the floor-to-ceiling windows and the glossed ceiling. The walls were painted in a pale grey, offset by occasional splashes of colours such as the vanity table to her left-hand side painted in beige or the dark green carpet. She spotted an opaque glass door next to the vanity table and on the same side of the room, there was also a seating area with velvet pale blue armchairs and a low glass table in front of them.

To her right there was another door, which she assumed led outside, flanked to its left by a large desk and chair, largely devoid of any decorations. The space between the bed and windows felt unnecessarily large, perhaps to draw the guests’ attention to the panoramic view they had of Gotham below which now was bearing the brunt of a heavy rain.

 _That view. I am at the penthouse again._ Maybe one of the many rooms she’s passed by last time? She tilted her head to look around the opulent space and relief flooded her when she saw Bagheera next to her, pale-blue gaze watching her intently. His emotions were dulled out so she couldn’t tell what was going in his mind with certainty. 

He rarely ever hid himself like that from her. Was he doing it on purpose? She moved gradually, first her fingers, then her hands and then her feet. Bagheera growled softly, more of a purr and he shifted, pulling himself in a sitting position, giving her space to move around. “Bag,’’ she murmured once she managed to pull herself up against the pillows. He leaned closer to nuzzle her face and neck, mindful not to hurt her and she wrapped her arms lightly around his neck, trying to use the closer contact to get a read on what he felt. “Is…everything okay?’’ She asked softly. She felt affection flood off him, but…there was something else. She couldn’t tell what. She wasn’t an empath and whatever sensitivity she may have had to other’s auras was greatly affected by the presence of her bracelets.

Still, she knew her paladin well – if he was shutting her out, it was generally because he was upset with her (mostly attitude than genuine anger) or injured and did not wish her to worry. It didn’t seem like it was either one of those cases. 

She met his pale gaze, but she saw nothing there. “Okay.’’ She nodded, leaning to press her mouth closer to his ears. “I trust you.’’

They weren’t in danger, he would have been far more agitated, but she didn’t think they were safe per se, either.

“ _Meowww…_.’’

The sound washed over her, interrupting her train of thoughts and looking past Bag, she stared with surprise at the sight of the silver-haired cat – _her cat_ \- at the edge of the bed, meeting her gaze with unblinking green eyes. Not just the cat, either. The curly dog was there with her too, curled up on a--- _was that a dog bed?_ – by the entrance in the room. That only left…. a chitter to her right drew her gaze to the floor where the ferret was busy playing with… _was that plush toy shaped like a bat?_

From a rational point of view – easier to adopt when she wasn’t exhausted and emotionally frayed – they were being treated like guests, not hostages. Very generously too. Damian didn’t have to bring the animals too, and offer them all those---

\---wait a second.

If the animals were there, that meant he went in the attic. _Damian was in her attic._ He went in her personal space, her **territory**. Where she kept her books and effects and…crap, crap, crap. The _other stuff_ , too. Last she remembered, they were safely nestled in two hiding spots: one behind two bricks in the vaulting wall in a metal case, and the other under a board of the floor, underneath her mattress.

He had no way of knowing she was hiding things, though and even if he had decided to look around, Bagheera would have stopped him.

 _Why would Bag allow him to go up there? Was he really that worried?_ They’ve been through worse though, and as psychically weakened her body may be, she knew she was still more resistant than other children at her age (in that world, anyway).

Bagheera reached to lick her good hand. Caught in her own thoughts she hadn’t initially paid him attention but then he nipped her gently, and she looked down at him with a confused look. He met her gaze, then licked her hand again, deliberately so. 

One, two, three.

Her eyes widened slightly. Of course. How could have she not realized before? It was one of the signals she taught him years before; all paladins were trained in the use of customised signals between them and their partners should the situation make it difficult for them to communicate as normal. Fay and Bag never relied on them because Bagheera’s empath’s unique abilities had always been a trump card for them; if she spoke to him out loud is because she enjoyed doing it and it helped him develop his knowledge of human vocabulary. 

Her heart sunk in her stomach as she processed what he was trying to do. That’s why his emotions were hidden from her: they weren’t in immediate danger but he wanted her to be alert, and Bag would have known she’d panic if she felt his emotions stronger than she did the moment she woke up. She took a deep breath, which was harder than it should have been and reached to pat his head, meeting his gaze. He may not be projecting but he’d be able to feel her emotions all the same.

She blinked twice, slowly _I got it_ and he growled so softly she felt the vibration rather than the sound itself.

He understood.

Tilting his head away from her, she followed his gaze towards the double doors at the end of the room. Someone was coming.

Surely enough, three soft knocks followed moments later. Whoever it was behind the door did not alarm Bagheera, but he did pull himself away from her to get down from the bed and lay on the floor, looking deceptively relaxed. She knew better. From that position he could attack easier without having to worry about her getting caught in the crossfire.

“…Yes?’’ At least she wounded calmer than she felt.

Act normal, she told herself. They weren’t in any immediate danger, that much was clear or otherwise Bagheera would h

“Miss Fay, may I come in?’’

It was Alfred.

“Alright, Mr. Pennyworth.’’

The butler came in carrying a silver tray with a steaming teapot, a bowl of sugar and lime wedges on a small plate, which he all placed on the nightstand to her left. The scent wafting from the tea told her it was ginger and chamomile.

 _Maybe some more sedatives too?_ Because the digital clock on the other nightstand said it was _8:17_. It was 8th of September, which meant she had slept at least _seventeen hours_ , a dreamless sleep at that. Regardless of how tired or battered she may have been, sleeping almost a full day was not something she would have achieved without some…. assistance. The only other times it happened for her to sleep for such long stretches of time was when she used to train her flux extensively but even then, her mother’s herbs were needed to keep her under. The healers did used to keep her sedated for days following that night because of her night terrors and volatility.

Feeling stronger though than she felt in weeks, she found it easier to push down the anxiety threatening to bubble up at the implications of Alfred or Damian having sedated her. When she had looked down at herself earlier, she was still wearing the same clothes as the day before sans her red hoodie and shoes, but all her injuries have been cleaned and dressed including the ones around her midriff. That meant she had received a psychical, a frightening prospect. In her unconscious state, her marks wouldn’t have been visible, but her scars were, and she wasn’t sure how she’d explain some of them without potentially having to play into the ‘abusive family’ theory. Then again, the truth would be worse, so she’d go with that if needed. They wouldn’t have attempted to take her bracelets off though, not with Bag there and he would have also made sure Alfred limited only to what was necessary in terms of checking her injuries.

 _Good, that’s good. Focus on facts._ Sedated or not, seventeen hours of sleep had done wonders to clear her mind and give her strength to push away the anxiety and paranoid that often eroded her logic and observational skills.

“Good morning, Miss Fay.’’ The butler greeted cordially, as the small dog roused from his bed and started wagging his tail at the sight of him. “How are you feeling?’’

Objectively, she felt well even if a bit sore. She suspected whatever they gave her hadn’t worn off yet because she should have been in far more pain than that.

“Better, thank you.’’ She murmured. “Is this…the Wayne tower again?’’

“Indeed, it is. Master Damian has brought you in, and I must say, I am relieved he did so. You were in quite a shape, but thankfully you have no broken bones. Just badly bruised and a few cuts.’’

She wanted to think he helped her, but she found it hard to perceive any generosity in his actions when there was so much else to consider as well. “I—um, I am sorry for imposing.’’ She still felt compelled to be polite, however.

It was a shame. She did like Alfred.

“Not at all, Miss Fay.’’ Alfred said gently. The ferret tried to crawl up his leg, but the butler gently removed it and set it on the bed, much to the aggravation of the cat. The ferret had a terrible habit of biting her ears, playfully so but she rarely ever was patient for it. If the butler thought her menagerie of animals was strange or felt bothered at having them in that luxurious space, he didn’t show it. “I do must apologise for having to take dress your wounds while you were unconscious, but it was imperative to check for any broken bones or internal bleeding.’’ She nodded. Reasonable enough. “As you must’ve noticed, today is eight of September. I have given you a mild sedative as it seemed you were experiencing nightmares, and I worried you might aggravate your injuries.’’

She hadn’t expected him to own up to it, it was a positive which was dampened by the knowledge she’s experienced nightmares while in their care. What if she said something she shouldn’t have? 

“I—I understand.’’ Just a mild sedative explained why she didn’t feel as out of it as she used to when the healers drugged her, but had she been really _that_ tired? “Thank you, Mr. Pennyworth.’’ 

“You are most welcome. Now, the door over there---‘’ He gestured to the glass opaque door. “—is the bathroom. I’ve left fresh towels and a change of clothes for you. You will also find bath supplies in the cabinets, including bandages.’’

She nodded, eyes lingering in the direction of the bathroom. A shower would be welcome, but not until she figured out why Bagheera sent her that signal. “Okay, thank you.’’

“Given the order you’ve been through and the painkillers, some breakfast might help replenish your strength.’’ Alfred suggested.

Her stomach said yes, her self-preservation said no. She wasn’t sure if she wanted to drink or eat anything without seeing the food being prepared; she’d been raised to question the hands that touch her food if not in a familiar territory she trusts. It would look weird if she didn’t, and she had gone for more than twenty-four hours without food, however so he had a point about her body needing to be refuelled.

“Yes, please. Um, if it’s not too much to ask…would it be okay if I took a shower first? I—I could also come to the kitchen.’’ She smiled nervously. “I feel like walking a bit, anyway.’’ She would have preferred to stay in the room to think things.

Alfred inclined his head. “Of course. Come whenever you’re ready and I shall prepare you some food. Turn left down the hall, then right to arrive at the main entrance. Do you recall your way from there to the kitchen?’’

She nodded.

“Good. The ginger and cinnamon tea should help you if you are experiencing any nausea.’’

“Thank you.’’ She had no intention to drink it.

She waited until the butler was out of the room, and the door was closed to glance at her backpack. It had been left on the chair in front of the vanity table.

Glancing back at her paladin, she saw him already up and waiting for her.

“A shower sounds nice, doesn’t it, Bag?’’

.

Three licks to the hand.

_A hidden threat._

It was a signal they had come up in case Bagheera sensed something was wrong, but circumstances disabled him from acting on it. There were not many who would expect his empath’s abilities in her world, much less there and unless particularly erratic he always controlled his emotional projects to ensure it was limited to her. There were times he liked using them on unsuspecting people like on volunteer day when he’d purposefully externalised calm and happy emotions, influencing the visitors to feel the same. It was still a work in progress that ability because in their world, many would have sensed his intention on trying to influence them. As far as it concerned the signal, he gave her, she doesn’t recall a time them using it except during mock mission, as it had always been easier for him to let her know how he felt during the real ones. If they were apart, him reading her emotions made up for it just as her reading his body language did.

He had hidden his emotions for her benefit because maybe he didn’t know what emotional state, she might be in. He was worried that he might inadvertently trigger a panic attack. 

Oh, her sweet, thoughtful, brilliant, incredible paladin. What had she done to deserve someone like him? 

Once in the bathroom, she discreetly locked the door, plopped her backpack on the marble counter near the sink and walked over to the shower cabin, which was scandalously large. Turning on the faucets almost all the other way round, she stepped back and watched the glass panels fog as the hot water streaming down from the ceiling caused steam to form rapidly. She inspected the entire room – the mirror and its frame, the cabinets where she found all kinds of bath products, the corners of the room, even the potted plant by the windowsill – but she found nothing. Nothing obvious anyway to tell her that she was being watched.

On the marble counter she had found soft fresh towels, and like Alfred mentioned, a change of clothes.

New clothes, at that consisting of a dark pair of trousers and a navy long-sleeved shirt. There were also socks, underwear, a brassier and even a new pair of shoes in a box she’d found underneath all the items. The new attire was clearly chosen for someone her age, and although loose enough, it would still be the fittest wardrobe she would have in that world.

 _Always remember you don’t know what you don’t know._ Master Tora’s words rang in her mind and did nothing to assuage her concerns, but there was no point focusing on what she couldn’t control. There were only so many precautions she could take so she had to be pragmatic. Sitting down on the soft rug near the shower cabin, with her backpack propped against her, she pulled out her journal and a pencil. Bagheera stood next to her, towering over her form. If someone was watching, then they shouldn’t be hear her over the noise of the shower; and they wouldn’t also have a clear view of her face. 

With a slightly shaky hand, she started jotting down what she did know. When in doubt, work backwards, map out your knowledge to identify gaps and uncertainties. She’s already done that several times over the last weeks, but something had clearly changed or otherwise Bagheera would have alerted her earlier to any hidden threats.

12th of August, she first met Damian at the museum. Then she officially met him on 21st of August, but they were meant to meet on 20th, according to his own words except she ended up running away from the museum.

He had her come _to_ him. Not the other way around. He purposefully tracked her down – _how exactly?_ Was still unanswered on the paper – and had her deliver to him a package he did not need, just so he could give that entire speech, as if she had somehow won a prize. The memory of that meeting still irked her, even if Damian had somewhat changed his attitude after. _He came after her. Twice._ Once at the soup kitchen for a half-assed apology (which she wasn’t so sure if it had been genuine anymore) and then in the alley after she had turned him down.

Damian Wayne did not strike her as the type of person to do that. She was not nearly interesting as a person, and he was obviously not interested in friendship (who was, then again, when it came to her?). He wanted to reward her for her allegedly heroic behaviour but to seek her out like that felt…. off. Did it matter if she wanted the money or not? Shouldn’t that be her prerogative? Why not just donate it to other people if he was so interested in fulfilling a ‘social duty’? He offered her all those money and benefits, and if she hadn’t refused, he wouldn’t have told her why. He had deceived her, regardless of his intentions and he was going to keep deceiving her, preferring to try to persuade and persuade her several times. Had their roles been switched, she would have gone up to him, mentioned that she had been tipped off to his actions and would like to offer him a reward; or she would have kept it anonymous.

She had chalked it up to his pride, not liking when people said no, and she didn’t eliminate that as a possibility but what if…. there was more to it?

If he could forge new identities, falsify documents to declare her a legitimate, emancipated child despite being too young to qualify, if he could track her down to Yuri’s as easily as he did then why not monitor her remotely if he was so interested in who she was? The only response she could come up with is that he might have wanted her to work for him and there were no…logical reasons for that except that he wanted to watch her closer than he already did. _Am I being too paranoid about this?_

No. It was the way she was raised to think. Just because that world was different it did not mean people’s agendas differed. But if it was a case of wanting to keep her close – not in any good ways – then the question was still why? She had gone over the past few weeks several times, but she could not pinpoint a single moment that might indicate she’s anything but a runaway orphan child of that world. Sure, Bag was intimidating and his intelligence startling, but she didn’t think that was an issue.

Her actions the previous day could no longer be considered as just her being at the wrong time and place, though. She had deliberately chased down those thieves, and there was no way she could lie about it. She had told Helen she’d get the help of a vigilante, and perhaps she could have used that as an excuse, but her injuries told a different story now. 

Crap.

Damian kept his end of bargain when he said he won’t question her further on her family or why she was there, even if he had pushed the boundaries last time she had been at the penthouse. Fay doubted he’d just leave this incident alone, not after bringing her there. Thinking about his potential motivations made her feel dizzy and she hadn’t even considered yet why Bagheera alerted her to a hidden threat.

When she looked down at her journal, she grimaced at the amount of question marks she had on. So many unanswered questions yet she allowed him to push her around for a week. Perhaps it would have been better to run away in the beginning.

Okay, well all that brings her to that moment. She glanced at Bagheera.

“Help me out here, Bag.’’ She muttered. “Remember…blink once for no, and twice for yes. Okay?’’

He blinked twice. Good.

“Are—are we in danger?’’

_No._

“Then—then are we being watched?’’

_No._

She stared at him confusedly before she decided to rephrase her questions. “Not-not in here. Out there.’’

He blinked twice. _Damn._

“Oh-okay.’’ She took a deep breath, then exhaled, flinching slightly when the action expanded her ribcage causing pain to flare around the area she was bruised. She hadn’t looked yet but she imagined how grotesque her skin must’ve looked. “Is---is Damian watching us?’’

_Yes._

Her heartbeat was starting to increase and the steam rolling off from the shower wasn’t helping her breathing. She was starting to feel a bit sweaty herself which probably did no favours to what she must’ve smelt like already.

“Is he…dangerous?’’

_Yes._

She had already thought that herself, didn’t she so what’s changed now to alert her paladin in that manner? When she met Damian for the first time, he had made her fight or flight response go haywire, but she had assumed it was because of her own emotional state that day. He may have been abrasive and rude, but it wasn’t his fault his eyes reminded her of her mother although they weren’t even the same shade; it wasn’t his fault that she was already on the brink of a breakdown but he did rattle her further. She hadn’t stopped thinking he was dangerous for reasons that were still valid – his wealth, his influence, his ability to get under her skin and in her head, how perceptive and smart he was, the fact that he could very easily destroy the semblance of a life she built there if he wanted to.

“Does---he want to hurt us, Bag?’’

_No._

…. okay?

“Are—are you sure?’’

The paladin blinked twice and grunted softly. He was very sure. So, is that why he hadn’t acted? Because Damian was dangerous, yet not to them?

“I mean, we knew that, right?’’ She told him. “He’s—really rich and he, um, tracked us down---‘’ Bagheera whined, interrupting her.

“So, it’s not...that? Or just that?’’ 

Now she could feel the anxiety and frustration rolling off him. There were other ways – easier ones – they could have been communicating had it not been for his own genetical defects. Member of his species possessed the ability to project their thoughts onto their partners, something Bagheera never mastered, but instead he had been gifted with an incredibly keen sense for emotions. It was disadvantageous in the sense that in moments such as that he could not clearly show her what he wanted to tell her, but it was also an advantage because very few could say their paladin was as understanding of emotional states as he was. She wished she could have found ways to compensate for her own shortcomings.

But what other ways could Damian be dangerous that she hadn’t already laid out?

“…psychically?’’ She muttered out loud. Damian was strong psychically, at least compared to her current state but that wasn’t such a weird thing, was it? He clearly liked taking care of himself and given his upbringing, he must have been raised in an environment that worked in his favour, because it offered him access to good food and travel and other finer things that Robby, for example, might not experience at all in his lifetime.

He was very discreet though. In the way he moved, it wasn’t just grace. Bagheera had been disconcerted by his presence more than once, emotionally speaking as well so Damian felt far more than she knew. He always seemed tethering on constant anger, but her life was ruled by panic so who was she to judge if she wasn’t on the receiving end of that fury? When he found her at the attic, she had caught a glimpse of that anger, and it had been directed at her.

Why though? Because she’d done something, well…illegal? Because she missed her deadline? Because she chose to help Helen and not tell him about it?

“Psychically how?’’

He growled softly. Right. Open-ended questions would only make things more confusing. Bagheera would probably grade someone’s psychical prowess within the parameters in their world. They did not have that much contact there with other children, other than Damian himself, either to be able to comfortably say how other girls and boys fared in the psychical strength department.

“Did he---carry me?’’

 _Yes._ Now she would have rather didn’t know that. It was embarrassing, and it made her feel uneasy they’d been in such proximity with her in such a vulnerable state.

“So is that why---‘’ He growled softly, interrupting her again.

Fay pursued her lips slightly, ignoring the way her upper lip stung. “Do you mean like…other children? In Maysoon, I mean.’’

_Yes._

“But—but how?’’ She murmured to herself. “You mean…he is smart?’’

Yes. Then he huffed, shaking his head slightly.

Not just smart. 

“He can…fight?’’

Yes _._ _Does that mean he could…?_ Granted, it didn’t take much for anyone to overpower her in that state but whatever element of surprise she may have had on her end was potentially void.

“Okay…but people can fight here too. I know it’s---different here, Bag, but children could be taught to defend themselves too.’’ Especially genius children whose father is one of the richest men in the world. When put in that perspective, it was more surprising if he didn’t know how to protect himself. At least that was the case in her world. She’d only ever seen him accompanied by Alfred who may well have been in charge with his security and not just cooking and cleaning and medical care. Just like Moma. 

Her paladin growled in frustration and got up, starting to pace back and forth in front of her, his emotions shielded again. He was upset, but not with her, just with his own inability of not being able to communicate better. If he could have just shown her, then she wouldn’t have to ask so many questions and still be unclear on his message. She knew he felt the sting of failure as much as she did sometimes. It was why they were so fit for one another.

“Hey—hey, Bag. Bagheera—‘’ She grabbed him by the fur on his neck and pulled him closer, repositioning herself on her knees so she could wrap her arms around him easier. “It’s okay. It’s not your fault. You’re doing a great job.’’ She pulled away to look in his eyes. “You are so, _so_ smart. I wouldn’t have known all this without you.’’ 

He whined softly and she felt the shame and guilt. It wasn’t hers this time, however. 

“You’d never disappoint me.’’ She said firmly and she meant every word. He was the only one who never disappointed her, the one she trusted wholeheartedly. If something happened to him, he would be the final crack before she died of heartbreak, that she was certain of.

She caught sight of the clock on the wall, next to the bathroom entrance. She’d already lost almost over half an hour in there; she couldn’t go in the kitchen without having showered or Alfred would find it very strange. She was certain she stunk. The water might calm both her muscles and clear her head again. They weren’t being watched in there, Bagheera confirmed. She wasn’t sure if that meant he hadn’t figured out all the ways they could have been, or if they were being monitored only at certain times. Either way, she had already been unconscious and vulnerable at their hands, so taking a shower would not be worse than that.

“Bag---they, um, didn’t see the marks, right?’’ She asked softly, pulling away from him to gaze in his eyes. 

He blinked once, and she sighed in relief. “Good, good. Did they---did Alfred do anything else to me? I mean, beside cleaning and bandaging me?’’

_No._

Alright. Focus on the facts, not ‘what ifs’ for the time being, she told herself. “We’ll figure it out, okay?’’ She told her paladin, holding his large hand between her hands and pressing her forehead to his. “If they’re not a danger to us, that’s—that’s a good start, right?’’ She’d take the small wins for now. 

He blinked twice. 

With that she peeled her clothes off, then her bandages and jumped inside the shower after grabbing some of the products from the cabinet. She removed the gauze patch on her cheek and the strip over her nose but left the other strips on as they seemed to be waterproof. Bagheera went to sit by the door, guarding it. The tile felt slightly cold underneath her bare feet and she had to lower the pressure and change the temperature because her body was still recovering and overly sensitive.

She spent at least another thirty minutes in the shower and when she came out her face stung, her hand and side were tender but she ignored the pain because it was worth it if it meant scrubbing her skin clean the way she did.

Fay chose to not apply bandages anymore because they felt constricting. The entire left-hand side of her body from right below her chest to her hip, was a large patch of purples and blotches of yellows and reddish welts. The man had only hit her once with his foot, and her instinct to fold in on herself had spared her graver injuries, but she still bruised easier than she did before. She should have already started healing as well; more reason why she had to eat.

Underwear and trousers on, the shirt was next which she buttoned it all the way up to her neck and made sure her bracelets were hidden below the sleeves. Her right-hand was almost as bruised as her side making it difficult to clench her fingers or grip anything properly, so she wrapped a layer of gauze around her knuckles and fingers but chose to avoid doing the same with her torso because the bandages felt too constricting. Out of the entire new wardrobe, she welcomed the new shoes the most. They were dark, with thicker soles but made from a light, flexible material; they fit her perfectly and after an entire week of running around in her ratty converse that blistered her feet, those ones felt like clouds.

After drying her hair, she detangled her short locks as best as she could with her fingers given her only brush was back in the attic and she hadn’t spotted any in the bathroom. The pages of her journal in which she had written down her observations were ripped out, folded in small squares, and shoved in the zipped pocket of her trousers. Just to be safe.

When she finally exited the bathroom, she found the dog laying belly up amongst the pillows and the ferret chasing the cat around the room, which Bagheera quickly worked to stop before they started damaging anything they wouldn’t be able to afford paying back. The new wardrobe looked expensive as it was.

A knock firmer than Alfred’s interrupted her as she was going through the items in her backpack with a frown. There were at least four wallets in there and three pairs of car keys, as well as some jewellery. Anyone who looked at those items could automatically assume she had stolen themselves. She hadn’t really thought clearly in the moment, too pumped by adrenaline to consider that she’ll have to return those personal effects anonymously or risk being labelled as one of the thieves. She watched Bagheera straighten from where he was playing with the ferret, back tense as he stared at the door and she quickly shoved the stolen items at the bottom of her backpack covering them with her personal ones before closing the backpack.

“…yes?’’

The door opened.

Green met brown.

“Pennyworth wanted to make sure you don’t get lost on your way to kitchen.’’

Fay swallowed nervously as she watched his eyes scrutinise her features before falling to her bandaged hand. “You look…better.’’

Well, she didn’t expect that.

Nor did she expect to see the cat and dog race to him for attention.

What.

The.

F-

The ferret to his credit was not as keen, and instead he jumped on the bed and scurried to sit on her lap but watched the boy attentively. At least he was loyal, she thought sourly. Damian crouched down, allowing the cat to climb up his arm and on his shoulder, while with one hand he scratched the dog’s ears. She just stared surprised to find he had a soft spot for animals and them for him.

He glanced at her with a raised brow. “Well? Do you want to get some food?’’

Did little to improve his attitude, it seems.

.

.

.

The dog and ferret were left in the room, but the cat refused to dismount Damian and he didn’t seem to care, as he guided her silently down the halls. The kitchen was warmer than the rest of the house and filled with delicious scents, wafting from the marbled island filled with nothing short of a buffet. Waffles, plates filled with peeled and chopped up fruit, fresh croissants, toasted bread, Alfred went all the way. She spotted different jars of jam, peanut butter, and chocolate spread.

Alfred looked slightly surprised when he saw them walking in together, Fay trailing slightly behind Damian with Bagheera between them.

Wasn’t he the one who asked Damian to come check on her? _Did…he lie?_

“Master Damian. Miss Fay.’’ The butler greeted. “Please help yourselves.’’

He pulled a bowl with freshly cut pieces of meat and sat it down for Bagheera who sniffed at it cautiously before briefly glancing at Fay, then helping himself. Logically they had no reason to drug her, not after being such gracious hosts but she was going to be as cautious as Bagheera was. Alfred asked her if she’d prefer some eggs before she had any sugar, given she hadn’t eaten anything in over a day and she agreed, intent on sitting down on one of the stools but then the butler just told her he’ll bring it over where Damian had already walked to.

The sofa. Hm.

She sat as far as away as possible from him, reminding herself that he was dangerous but not to her. _Not yet._ Flinching visibly when she brushed her hand accidentally over the arm of the sofa, she lifted it to loosen the bandages slightly. Her fingers felt numb. A hand suddenly reached towards her and she tensed up immediately, looking up to see Damian – _much closer than previously_ – stare at her cautiously. No anger, no smugness, no mockery.

“You put them on too tight. Allow me.’’

She really didn’t want to, but she found herself tilting her hand towards him all the same. Some of his fingers were taped. But other than that, he looked no different, except that he seemed to be dressed more casual in the sweatpants and blue t-shirt. For some reason blue looked off on him and it wasn’t just because she had grown accustomed to see him wear dark colours. His hands were warm and firm, and she watched him quietly as he untied the knot she made and peeled off the gauze. He was…gentle, only holding her wrist lightly but not touching her more than necessary.

He didn’t feel dangerous to her in that moment.

The cat he previously held in his arms, crawled along the back of it, to watch them both. Her fingers tingled, the blood rushing back as the pressure of the gauze was removed so she looked back at him. Damian was staring at her hand with an unreadable look, and she thought it was because of how unsightly it looked, swollen and bruised, the purples stark against her pale skin. He didn’t look disgusted though or even taken back and she watched speechlessly as he brushed his thumb against a scar against her index finger. It wasn’t the only one, but others have faded, not having been quite as deep as that one.

“The cut went to the bone.’’ He remarked. “How did that happen?’’

She bit her lip considering not telling him at all, but his sudden gentleness threw her off. “I—I grabbed on something sharp.’’ She almost lost her finger.

“Hnn.’’ He started to wrap the gauze back around her hand, starting with thumb, then wrist before working his way up to her fingers.

He had done it before. He had to have given the ease with which he did it. His hands did look calloused and the taped fingers…” Is that from a sword?’’ She blurted before she could think through how stupid that was.

He looked up at her, eyebrow quirking. “A sword? What makes you think that?’’

_Crapcrapcrapcrap_

_Think, Fay. Think!_

“I-um, --I know someone who used to—use a sword. Fencing, I mean. He used to-to tape his fingers like that.’’

It wasn’t a lie per se. She had taped her fingers plenty of times in the past while sparring but her inclination had never been towards swords.

“Do you?’’

“W-what?’’

“Know how to use a sword.’’

“N-no.’’ She did but she’d never shown an affinity for it; always finding it hard to get accustomed to moving with the weight. It just felt antithetical to the mastery of the flux.

“Huh. Shame.’’ What was that supposed to mean?!

He just carried on bandaging her fingers, without having answered her question. A bit peeved that he turned the question around on her, she opened her mouth to ask him again, but he beat her to it. “I grew up learning the art of swordsmanship, and I find it a…. relaxing pastime.’’ He smirked lightly, and she thought what was so funny about it.

Swordsmanship was a dying art in that world, as far as she knew so perhaps that’s why?

“Why didn’t you?’’

Wow. Full of questions, wasn’t he? As if the previous day he hadn’t stalked her to the attic, as if he wasn’t skulking in the shadows, as if he did not cross a boundary by going in the attic and then bringing her there.

“I don’t care much about it.’’ Then, not wanting to allow him to get in another question before she got some answers as well, she added, “…how did you know I was at the soup kitchen?’’

If he didn’t expect the question, he didn’t show it.

“I found Wilmot sitting outside the museum when I arrived at midday, and she had your phone. She also told me that she had been mugged and was worried you might be putting yourself in danger.’’

Did he have to wrap her hand so slow? She wasn’t made of glass and being so close to him distracted her. Their meeting was meant to be at twelve, and she had returned just barely in time for Helen’s meeting at a quarter to two. Did he wait that long for her at the attic? It didn’t make sense. Why not call the police if Helen thought she’d be at risk? Because he had promised he wouldn’t report her?

Something didn’t fit.

He finished her hand and she clenched her fingers slightly; still weak and tender but the bandages were no longer blocking her circulation. He didn’t let go of her hand and when she tried to remove it, his grip tightened slightly. Not enough to hurt her, but enough to make her look at him alarmed.

“That was really stupid of you.’’ He remarked tersely, eyes narrowing. “You could have died, going so recklessly after them. Not only they outnumbered you, but crushed you given how psychically disadvantaged you were.’’

_“That was stupid of you.’’_

_“You could have died.’’_

“East End of Gotham is an incredibly dangerous area and you— ‘’ He stopped, frowning. “Fay? What’s the matter?’’

She found it hard to breathe, as if someone had just punched her in the solar plexus; a shudder travelling down her spine. Breaking gaze with him, she bowed her head trying to regain her breath and willing herself to stay put. It wasn’t easy—every single cell in her being screamed that she should put as much distance as possible. Her thoughts were like a violent storm and she struggled to process all of them.

The puzzle had come together, and it felt as if she was being swept by a tsunami, different emotions battling for dominion over her body. Fear and panic dictated that she should just alert Bag and try to get out of there immediately, ration, as muted as it was, told her that she had to calm down because reacting emotionally will only worsen things.

Maybe she was wrong.

She had to be wrong. There was no way she’d be that unlucky, is it?

She’s not sure what happened next because her vision blurred, and the world became fuzzy. She’d vaguely felt Bagheera’s fur, the concern radiating off him and Damian calling out to Alfred, but still holding onto her. The pins and needles in her chest were intensifying and she pressed her good hand to her chest, feeling the strong, rapid thud of her heart.

“I—I can’t---bre---breathe—‘’

Then she blacked out.


	8. Of different perspectives, layers, and curiosity

_“People, I have discovered, are layers and layers of secrets. You believe you know them, that you understand them,  
but their motives are always hidden from you, buried in their own hearts.’’  
  
_

Veronica Roth

.

.

.

It all started with that damned painting.

His curiosity that is.

Dozens if not hundreds of people passed by that painting in the week it had been put up for the exhibit. The critics as incompetent as they were, have interpreted the painting incorrectly for the better part but some had come close in identifying accurately the emotions that motivated the author. Still, they had no idea. None of them did. Damian himself hadn’t fully put much thought into it when he’d painted; using as an outlet because the training room had already been torn apart and Alfred wouldn’t have been happy if he decided to take out his anger on his garden again.

It wasn’t the first time he’d crippled a man like that, and his intention was never to kill him but to ensure the effects of the psychical damage are long-term, permanent. Wyatt was a disgusting piece of shit whose mocking countenance was like that of a Joker’s; complete dismissal to the suffering he’s caused his victims. He enjoyed killing Hannah Walker, so yes, Damian enjoyed hurting him. Father was being a hypocrite; just because Wyatt hadn’t fought back, it didn’t mean he still didn’t earn the beating. Damian understood what his father was trying to tell him, he just still struggled to be on board with it. He was keeping his killer instinct, wasn’t he? It’s been over two years now. For how much longer must he prove himself?

(It will never be enough, will it?)

It had unnerved Damian the way she cried at the sight of that painting. A part of him believed she had no right to be so moved by it; she could not even begin to comprehend its significance, the hidden layers.

Or did she?

What were the odds that the same girl would come across him in that building? Damian did not believe in fate. He believed in facts.

The fact was that Fay did not exist. She was a ghost. There no birth record, no family to trace her to, no photos of her on any data base, no missing person’s report assuming her family cared enough to file one. In that day and age, there were not many ways that someone could achieve that level of invisibility. Either she had been raised in complete isolation, or the so-called family she’s run from has enough power to erase her in such ways. He thinks the first theory holds more weight. Her nervous disposition, post-traumatic stress, and desire to remain under the radar would be conducive to a trauma of having raised in an atypical environment, one that scarred her emotionally and psychologically. She had parents and they were dead, and the way she spoke about her family indicated that her life took a negative turn the moment they died.

The possibility that she was protecting her abusers was not to be excluded; she may be doing so without realising.

She was no threat, but Damian was raised to be thorough, so he had her DNA tested. She was human, although the system detected a biological variant. She carried the meta-gene, dormant though although the data analysis was not a hundred percent conclusive on it.

His reason for testing her the previous week was twofold: one, to see whether she displayed any signs of having developed special powers – she didn’t – and two, because he wanted to test whether her obstinate self-righteousness was genuine – she was -. He lacked yet information who she truly was, but her actions spoke volumes of her character and if he had any doubts that her presence in that building, those were put to rest the more he observed her. Her reckless – but selfless—character was just that. She was the type of person who laid others’ lives before hers, who’d decrease her chances at winning freedom in the shape of a new identity, thousands of dollars and the chance to have her beloved dog with her at all times.

Damian had been raised to destroy his enemies, to crush the competition, to put his victory above all else.

But as Robin he had learned to protect the innocent, to look out for those who can’t and not treat it as a weakness even if at times he found it difficult doing so.

What was her trauma? What is it that made her stutter and induce crippling panic attacks and that made that _darkness_ appear in her eyes when he’d asked about why she was there? That made her react so viscerally just because he had called her heroic. Letting aside how privileged she had been to get such a comment from him, he had obviously touched a nerve.

Survivor’s guilt, then.

She wasn’t…boring. There were layers to her character that he found himself greedily wanting to break down. She wasn’t anything special – appearance, brain, ability – but she was _something._ Perhaps he had underestimated her in the last two, however.

She had been reckless in hunting down that group of idiotic teenagers.

But she had also been _calculating_. Resourceful. He had gotten the details of what happened in that apartment block, he had inspected it himself, had read the police report. Ammonium nitrate. She created smoke bombs out of newspapers soaked in ammonium nitrate and by the looks of it she had broken into an apartment to do so. She deliberately stalked a group of individuals, virtually disadvantaged in all areas except for the element of surprise. Oh, and what a surprise she must’ve been for them to be taken out by a wisp of a girl.

Damian wishes he had been there to see exactly how it went, to see the look on her face as she planned everything. Did it take long for her to figure it out? Was she afraid as she usually was? She had assessed her target, had concluded that she was disadvantaged indicating self-awareness and she had not hesitated to break into an apartment – a crime in itself, how ironic – to find a way to increase the odds in her favour. Did she even think about calling the police and just rat the teenagers out? She gave up on the phone he gave her, but she had the other one, he knew, so she did have the means to reach for help.

She didn’t want to. There must have been a part of her that wanted to do all that, to confront them herself. 

Fay, timid, anxious, and stuttering Fay had behaved like a vigilante and she had even done an adequate job. Given her circumstances, it was even impressive. It wasn’t a flawless plan. Something went wrong given how battered she was. Judging by the scarf he’d found tied around her neck, she had at least thought about herself being affected by the toxic fumes, but she must have underestimated how much. He’d heard the way she coughed as she walked up the staircase.

He knew which one gave her most trouble. Daniel – aka Danny Boy – Doyle. Small-time drug dealer, who made money running a ring of disenfranchised adolescents in selling for him, in addition to stealing. Fay wouldn’t have known any of that but having Doyle arrested had caused a domino effect to several other of his associates, some of which weren’t quite as petty. Damian took care of them all, of course.

It was Doyle who got to her. Given his size and weight in comparison to hers he could have snapped her like a doll.

Yet Doyle was the one in the hospital with a displaced patella, a hairline fracture of the orbit, an eye filled with liquid and testicular torsion. Fay hadn’t stopped there; she ran for five miles back to the museum so she could get the damn presentation to Wilmot. It would have been adrenaline to motivate her, but even when accounting for that she had demonstrated resilience. That beast of hers had done his damage to Doyle too but Fay would have been responsible for the rest of the injuries. She fought _back,_ as injured as she was. She fought back. Her. The girl who lived in constant fear.

There was something…. else underneath that submissive attitude of hers. Something that wasn’t as easy to break down, clearly. He hadn’t been looking for it, he had not wanted for her to be harmed in such a manner, but it had been interesting to catch a deeper view of her character and discover there was more to her than what he’d already seen.

Damian was very good at observing others and reading body language, yet she had eluded him.

He had thought of her as stubborn - which she was -, but she was also determined when pushed the right way. The entire week he had kept her stress levels elevated and she had to have been aggravated by all the quizzing and studying and running about in Gotham, given how emotionally sensitive she is. Yet, she pushed through and it wasn’t just the incentive of an identity and money that motivated her.

It was the challenge itself.

He’d watch the dot move quicker than usual at times, had seen the CCTV capture her running around the city boldly changing her usual routes even if it meant increased difficulty in navigating around Gotham.

She looked…. Happier. There was no fear, no anxiety as far as the footage revealed. 

The fact was that Damian wanted to know more, he chalked up his curiosity to being cautious, wanting to know what her background and purpose in Gotham is. He wanted to know where she learned to defend herself and how good she was, who taught her to create smoke bombs, why she was so afraid and what she had seen to have such haunted eyes at time. He wanted to know what made her tick, why being good and selfless came so easy to her when clearly the world hadn’t been all that kind to her. Was it taught? Innate? How did she know the type of calluses that swords cause and who is it that she knew who used a sword? _Who was she exactly?_

Why did she stare at him with a distant look at times as if he reminded her of someone? Is that why she was still afraid of him even though she opened to the likes of Mercher and Wilmot? He wanted to know why there were scars like on her hands. Who put them there? Why?

How many more was she hiding underneath those horrendously mismatched, baggy clothes.

(He wanted to know everything)

But.

He didn’t want to hurt her. He was certainly not going to beg for her attention or chase her any further if she chose to part ways. He could continue to monitor her intermittently. Just to be on the safe side (for her safety, too). He never quite meant to push her as far as he did in the last several days either; it had proven a point that he had been right in choosing her and it had revealed intriguing aspects about her. Pennyworth had been both wrong and right. He was wrong because he underestimated the girl (just like Damian himself) but he was right that pushing her like that won’t help gain her trust. Fay was like a wild animal, one that immediately withdrew and ran away; she was mistrustful and potentially paranoid.

Someone had put those there just like they did with the fear.

He had heard the way she cried when her nightmares started to manifest while Alfred was treating her.

_‘Please…please uncle…I will do better next time. I am—I am sorry.’_

He couldn’t guarantee he won’t do some hunting of his own if he found out who this uncle was. 

.

.

.

“Pennyworth, the penthouse. Don’t hold back on that acceleration.’’ 

When Damian texted him to come to the address where the soup kitchen was located, Alfred had suspected something must’ve happened with the girl. He had dropped the young master himself at the museum only a few hours earlier, and although Damian did not inform him about the decision he’s made in the girl’s regard, the sealed passport he’d seen in the Batcave earlier that week had spoken volumes. 

Alfred had to commend the young girl when she was well enough, because while Damian had certainly not made it easy, she had refused to bend. Even if his boy had pushed the boundaries too hard, not as much interested in her worthiness as much as he wanted to test her resilience and determination, she saw the challenge through. Damian was curious about another child, a civilian one at that, and his solution to satisfying his curiosity was to test her in that manner rather just engage in conversation or be patient to get to know her. Understandable, given his upbringing but Alfred had found himself warning the boy about threading carefully if he did want to form a bond with the girl. Damian may have scoffed at the notion, even more defensive when Alfred mentioned that perhaps befriending her required different tactics.

The butler knew better than to fully buy into the ‘ _I have no need for such meaningless bonds’_ or ‘ _I am gathering data as any good detective does’_ speech. He’d seen how aggravated the boy had been when Fay turned out to be a far more stubborn character than he’d anticipated, one whom despite her shy nature, did not allow him in, figuratively speaking.

At the beginning of the week, Alfred wouldn’t have necessarily said she was going to make it given her fragile disposition, emotionally and psychically speaking and he had been Damian might damage her further, in his own attempt to understand her and show his gratitude for her actions. Because that’s how it started. A civilian girl risked her life for him; she couldn’t have known that Nightwing would have made it in time. He had tried to downplay her actions initially, but Alfred watched him watch the museum footage, watched him trying to track her down, arrange all that elaborate – and unnecessary, really – plan to get her attention. The boy had to learn the rough way that if he did not want to treat her like a criminal, he was tracking her down he’d have to change his tactics.

Fay had a largely nervous, distrustful nature like a wild animal in a foreign environment, but when pushed too hard, it seemed she wasn’t just that. Last Wednesday he had seen the way she was walking, limping because her feet were raw; he had seen how utterly exhausted she looked, how she only chose to eat once she was certain her dog was fed as well. If she had only been interested in the money, she would have said yes, the first time around. Damian may have incentivised her further, but she had not asked for leniency even when she struggled with the tasks, he’d given her.

Hm. No wonder the boy was aggravated by her; she did not behave as he had expected her to be, she did not fit the mould he had initially put her in.

Alfred was starting to understand better why the young boy was drawn to her, despite being such a different creature to him. Well, perhaps not quite that different, given her care for other animals and willingness to risk her life for others. He’d watched how Damian rectified himself, by cutting her tasks in half, quizzing her less in the subsequent days. His growth had never been linear, but it was there, and it had not required Alfred to advise him on it as he had done on other matters related to her.

Once at the penthouse, Damian didn’t even wait for him to come around and open the door. Bagheera jumped from one end and he exited from the other, the girl small and frail as a bird in his arms. Oh, and how fitting: her hoodie was red.

With her hood and scarf off, her pale face was marked by bruises and inflamed skin and dried blood. No other obvious injuries past that, except her incredibly bruised if not broken knuckles. She had fought back, the little one, and she must have done so hard, because her opponent would have been bigger, heavier (not that it would have been difficult to find someone like that given her state). Damian told him after that she didn’t stop there. 

In a way it was like watching history repeat itself.

He recalled other orphans catching the attention of another Wayne in a similar way.

He couldn’t help but wonder if Damian was consciously doing it all to prove his father (and himself) that he was more like him and less like what Talia had envisioned him to be?

Alfred hoped not.

.

.

.

His Fay.

He so dearly loved his Fay. Man-cub, that’s how her mother used to say, a term from that book the girl loved. He got his name from that book too, and how he wished she would read it again to him. It was okay. It did not change who he was to her - his to protect, to fight alongside and to guide her -, her paladin. Even if she had no title and no strength to do the same, he’ll always be her paladin.

He hadn’t been succeeding very well at helping her though. Not since that night. His Fay was still lost. Still afraid. He wasn’t sure when he last felt true happiness in her heart. Sometimes she felt too much, even for him. It was overwhelming. Humans generally were intense creatures, but his Fay had always been sensitive; she had always cared more than others did.

They hurt her. The other children. Adults, too. Repeatedly he had felt the bitter, dark emotions that hung on her like a spectre, and they still haunted her months later.

Bagheera wanted to hurt them. All of them. They had no right to hurt his Fay like that when she had already suffered enough. He knew she felt guilty for them being in that world, but he’d follow her to the world’s end if she asked. Coming to that world meant that she was away from those people who caused her to hurt, she was safe from being reminded of what she lost. What he lost, too.

If that’s what made her happy, even if he dearly missed his homeland, it did not matter. If they were together. They were partners for life.

She wasn’t that much better, especially on the Bad Days, but he could tell she enjoyed not being anyone in particular, that Dana’s affection rattled her but also soothed some wounds, that Mack’s jokes entertained her, that Robby’s friendliness didn’t make her quite as disgusted with herself. He really hated the people who made her think that. That she did not deserve better.

Then the boy showed up.

He had wanted to take his Fay far away that day. Because the boy was dangerous; he felt exactly like those _other_ children. Arrogant, too proud. Angry _. He felt like a killer._ His Fay was smart, of course. She’d have never said yes to him. She didn’t need Bag’s abilities to read other people; she could tell herself that the boy was no good.

Then the brat showed up at the soup kitchen.

On _their_ territory. The nerve of him. Was he not going to stop until she was hurt again? _Just like the others._

The same emotions he’s felt before were, but…there was caution too. The boy didn’t exactly feel remorse but…. something had changed. There was no malice and when his Fay had her panic attack again, he had been careful. He helped her. He wanted too, Bagheera could tell. He was no less dangerous than before but…maybe he wasn’t like the others, after all. None of them had shown that genuine concern, or they had been too afraid to act on it.

He felt…that same anger flare back up when his Fay was asked how she injured herself. There was also guilt, too, almost imperceptible beneath the hotter emotions the boy seemed to be dominated by.

Why did the boy feel that way? What a confusing creature.

Fay had been upset by him days later. The boy hadn’t liked her answer – Bagheera was proud she stood her ground – so he hurt her. With words. So much that she cried.

He hated the boy then. Wanted to hurt him.

Yet the boy was full of surprises, like when he showed up days later. His emotions were hidden, controlled but the paladin felt them all the same. They were confusing. It was as if the boy didn’t know what to feel.

He was volatile. His Fay was like that too.

Is that why the boy didn’t want to leave her alone? Bag didn’t know. He may feel human emotion, but he didn’t fully understand why mankind acted in certain ways at times. They complicated themselves unnecessarily often in that way of theirs of trying to stop themselves from feeling certain emotions, they were dizzying. So was the boy. There are a lot of emotions conflicting in him, and he does not seem willing to accept all of them, allowing anger to envelop them.

Fay felt---different in that week. She was…. enthusiastic. Proud of herself. Purposeful. Running by her side felt almost like it did back in the jungle.

Okay, so maybe he won’t maim the boy, he had decided. Even if he tired her out and forced her to give up on sleep, he had made his Fay feel different.

A bite to the ankle wouldn’t hurt though. But his Fay wouldn’t like that, so…. hm. Maybe when she’s not looking.

The paladin knew it was risky going after those dangerous human and he hated seeing his Fay hurt as she was, but he had also enjoyed it. Fay was Fay. The old one. The one before that night. He had missed her so dearly. He had enjoyed seeing her so determined and he was proud of her power beating down her own fears to achieve her goals, even if temporarily. The damn boy reappeared though. Silent. Only children in Maysoon moved like that, and only _the best_. Bagheera could have choked on the anger that was radiating off the boy and he had been ready to act when Fay fainted.

Then the boy changed again. His anger receded and Bag felt the kindness. It was there, buried deep beneath the rage along with the hurt, not unlike Fay’s.

The boy has experienced suffering, too. Shame, guilt, loneliness. Did he even know he could feel all that?

Hm.

Well, that changed things.

The boy liked to hide everything in that anger of his, but he couldn’t do it from Bagheera.

So, he decided then. The boy was not like the others. He was curious about his Fay but not because he wanted to use or hurt her, at least for the time being. He wanted something from her, and Bagheera didn’t know what that was but they were not in any danger.

Then…. He heard _them._ After Fay had been checked over and the tall man – Pennyworth, they keep calling him- made sure she was okay. Bagheera watched him like a hawk, to make sure he didn’t look or touch where he wasn’t meant to, but the man had been respectful, gentle with the girl. He made her better. His Fay had nightmares while the man was checking her injuries, and it had been the best to sedate her. She needed rest. She wouldn’t have wanted those people to see her like that (but he felt the boy’s anger flare when she’d started talking in her sleep all the same).

Then he heard them.

Pennyworth and the boy. 

Bagheera had stood in the hall, guarding the bedroom door and even if they were across the other end of the floor, he could still hear them.

‘ _Are you going after them, Master Damian?’_

_‘They are criminals, Pennyworth. I am going to make sure Gotham police, as incompetent as they can be, doesn’t allow them to walk away easily.’_

_‘Miss Fay has handled herself rather well, wouldn’t you say so? She’s brave.’_

_‘She was reckless, and she risked her life for a stupid reason. For a woman she doesn’t even know. She didn’t even think to call the police, not even after what they did to her. She wouldn’t have---she wouldn’t have said anything to me, had I not tracked her down.’_

_‘Is that so surprising, though? You have told me yourself that when confronted with the building incident, she had been rather adamant about not seeing herself as altruistic or brave. She’s a humble soul.’_

_‘She has the self-esteem of a rock.’_ The boy paused. ‘ _She…. she cares about others than she does herself.’_ He conceded.

_‘It would appear so. Shall I inform Master Richard you are going on patrol earlier?’_

_‘No need, Pennyworth, I will be back shortly. I won’t hurt them…much, so you have nothing to worry about. Robin will just finish the lesson she’s started. Being beaten by two children in one day should haunt them for long enough.’_

The Robin. The one his Fay helped that night, the colourful one.

The one she stayed behind for, even if at the expense of her life.

A warrior of that world.

Damian Wayne was dangerous in more ways than one; he was a threat hidden under the façade of a regular, human boy.

A hidden threat.

If Bagheera could speak, he’d certainly have used those expletives human seemed to like yet be embarrassed about simultaneously. 

.

.

.

Dana Mercher prided herself on her ability not to be disconcerted easily. She had a temper yes, and she’d swear like a sailor when she was particularly worked up, but she’d talk herself down because she knew some battles took longer than others. Or they weren’t worth fighting. After all, she’s experienced her own fair share of failures or hardships to learn that nothing ever came easy in life, not for people of her class.

The world didn’t change because you wished it or prayed or swore at it; it changed when others worked together to change it. That doesn’t happen often, but she wouldn’t be owning the soup kitchen if she thought giving up was ever an option regardless of how hard it is sometimes to get out of the bed or how much her wallet protests.

Robert’s words would help her on those days when she’d feel so jaded and embittered that the thought of _burning it all down_ filters through insidiously. She’s no stranger to depression or nervous breakdowns, and it had gotten better in recent years, but recovery was not linear. Sometimes it took hitting rock bottom to realize the only way is go up, to move forward.

She’d been thinking a lot about Robert lately. Maybe it was due to seeing their son grow up so frighteningly quick. Just yesterday he was latched to her and now? Now he’s preparing to go to medical school. She finds it hard at times reconciling that the young man before her is hers and his and theirs, and someone so beautiful and capable and so good came out of her. 

Fay made her think about Robert although there was nothing to connect them. 

Robert would have taken care of her too though. Especially if he saw how vacant the girl’s eyes would get sometimes while washing the dishes, the way she flinched whenever Mack would pull her into a bear hug which to her credit now allowed more often, the way she roamed around with that big dog of hers in that dangerous city. She was clever, in a quiet, unassuming way and she noticed things that Robby never did at his age which Dana found both eerie and intriguing.

She paid attention to the world and she saw it for what it was; there was no innocence left in those eyes. But she was still such a gentle little thing, one that always brought Dana snacks when she’d be particularly upset, or who would sit by Mack listening to his political rants, or who would scrub the kitchen clean with such discipline that it’d rival cadets. Dana had to wonder if she carried scars under those baggy clothes of her, if someone had hurt her the way her father used to, if that’s why she run away.

Talking about her family was a big no, and it made the kid agitated and withdrawn, but Dana had gotten enough out of her to know her parents were dead, and that she’s run away. Why, is unclear but she didn’t need to know. What mattered is that she was safe, that she was allowed to discover herself outside whatever environment she’d escaped from, that she knew she wasn’t alone beyond that insolent far-too-intelligent dog of hers (whose knowing looks and perceptiveness made her uneasy often enough).

Fay wasn’t the only homeless child in Gotham; she wasn’t also the only one that came through to her doors. Dana would help them all if she had the space and resources and funds, of course, but it had been Fay the one she felt drawn to. Maybe it was those eyes of her, or how she looked around the canteen differently – too attentive for her age - or how she was more worried about getting her dog food than herself.

The attic was meant to be a temporary solution until she’d figured the best way to help the kid; Child Services wasn’t her first option or second or third to be honest but she did have some connections that could have helped.

But the girl stayed, and the weeks passed by and she became a permanent fixture in all their lives. It was selfish, she knew but she really did like Fay; she wanted to gain her trust and find out who or what hurt her, and she believed the girl had potential. Dana would have never turned her life around if it hadn’t been for someone else to believe in her.

It was rather heart-warming knowing she was up there in her attic with Bagheera and those strays of her – they were really drawn to her, weren’t they? – reading and eating snacks and just hidden from the rest of the world. It was also heart-breaking because Dana knew Fay had bad days in ways someone her age shouldn’t; that she experienced symptoms indicative of post-traumatic stress. She’d never asked because there was no need: she’d seen how low her mood could get that she’d barely talk the entire day, how red and puffy her eyes would be, the bags under her eyes, the loss of appetite. Dana had experienced bad days throughout her life; she knew how they could drain a person’s spirit away. 

But she seemed aware of her own mental state to an extent. Dana had heard her count backwards or saw her run laps up and down the alley under the watchful gaze of her dog or she’d try to control her breathing. She persisted. 

So, Dana threaded more carefully, even if she was curious, even if at times it was hard to just stand back and watch her struggle. Fay had opened gradually in those few months she’d been with them, so the veteran did not want to do anything to jeopardise or stagnate that progress. She wondered what Fay did all day, when she wasn’t at the soup kitchen or after her shift because she hardly ever spent time in the attic. She’d told Dana a few times that she and Bag like walking around exploring, that she’d go to ‘Mr. Fitzwilliam’s library’ or the park. She’d stopped helping the butcher weeks earlier, and while Dana didn’t know the full details, she was rather relieved to hear. Yuri wasn’t a bad man, but he could be a demanding ass which is why he had a high turnover of staff members.

He also told her that Fay told him she did not have time to help after her last delivery, supposedly in the Upper parts of Gotham. It was a successful one, too so he had rewarded her by offering double what she always made (still not enough, in Dana’s opinion). Dana may not have been the most academically inclined student, but she was clever enough to put two and two together when that boy showed up at the soup kitchen, and his grandfather pulled her aside to mention that he will be just parking the car but he is comfortable with the boy to be on his own.

It was a busy day, so Dana had reluctantly agreed even if she didn’t like the way the boy’s attitude. He wasn’t impolite but the confidence he carried irked her. She didn’t see Fay’s reaction but when she glanced at them later, she saw them talking; not exactly friendly, she would have said because Fay was rather red in face, but she didn’t ask for help or run away so she must have been somewhat comfortable with him. Her dog also did not bite the boy’s ankles, which was a good sign knowing how protective the furry beast could get.

Fay had a panic attack not long after, and Mack told her that the boy demanded some ice before he rushed away with it out in the hall, which is where he found them. He made her feel better, calmed her down and while she found it odd, Dana didn’t stop her from going with the boy’s grandfather to get help. She wasn’t the girl’s mother or even legal guardian, there were some boundaries she could not yet push but at least she could make sure the girl had a way to contact her if she needed help. Especially after whatever upset her at the museum days earlier. When Fay returned, the bags under her eyes had faded and her hand was freshly bandaged. She told Dana that her wound – a result of a clumsy fall which she did not believe entirely – had grown slightly infected and the boy’s grandfather had treated it, but they promised they wouldn’t report her to any authorities.

They didn’t talk about it after and Dana hadn’t seen the boy around, but the last several days she’d hardly seen Fay outside her shifts. Even when she was at the soup kitchen, she seemed distracted but equally more animated than usual.

Something changed.

There was certain buzz about her, and when Dana checked the attic for her one evening she had seen books and papers strown all about, which she later learned were about the Gotham Museums where she had started volunteering along with surprise, surprise the boy. Fay looked more exhausted than usual, but she was more focused too and the veteran hadn’t seen her get jittery or quite as anxious as usual because of whatever she was working on. It made her happy when Fay asked for her help with her task of researching why the museum was important even if the girl didn’t offer much as to why she was working on it.

Dana knew better than anyone else how having a goal can help one’s mental health and it seemed Fay had found one hence the positive changes in her attitude.

But.

Something went wrong on Monday. Fay didn’t check in at all for the entire day and when Dana checked the attic after closing the soup kitchen, she had found it empty. The strays were gone too, but her personal effects were still there so she hadn’t run away. Fay never stayed that late out in the streets of Gotham, she was smarter than that.

Dana ended up waiting all night on the third floor, phone next to her.

 _God,_ she prayed even if she not much of a believer, _please don’t let Gotham swallow her whole like it has others._

.

.

.

 _A girl, huh?_ Dick thought with a mixture of amusement and apprehension. Girls were confusing enough when he was thirteen; it couldn’t be any easier even for a genetically perfect genius young boy. Alfred had mentioned though that it was not an infatuation or a whim that Damian was acting upon, as much as it seemed as he seemed curious about her. That sounded better, because he couldn’t quite wrap his mind around the idea of the boy having a crush, although he would have liked to be there for him when he finally did.

So, it wasn’t just any girl, but the one in the burning building. The one who carried him on the balcony then made a run for it after Dick got her on the roof. _Say what you want, Alfred,_ Dick thought, but it was rather endearing that Damian’s attention would be caught by someone who risked their life for him, even more so a civilian girl. If only the kid knew how to strike up a conversation without tormenting her for days; really, the convoluted ways he had chosen in approaching her would have come across as entirely insane had he not known that the boy really did not know better.

Dick had also spent enough time with Damian to know that he did not procrastinate, he did not draw things along. If he had really wanted to repay the girl for her bravery, there were several ways he could have done so without even needing to engage with her.

Yet, he did. Repeatedly. Apparently, the girl turned him down, twice.

Ouch. She couldn’t be blamed though.

Alfred described her as a lovely young girl, incredibly polite and thoughtful. Noble, too given her recent actions to go after a group of dangerous adolescents, motivated by the desire to help a woman she barely knew.

She had a vigilante’s heart, huh?

There was a possibility that Damian may have been doing all this to prove to Bruce he was capable of being different, not the creature Talia forged but more like him. The parallels were rather stark after all: Fay was a homeless child, a resourceful one at that, scarred by her own parents’ death. She wasn’t angry enough to be like someone else he knew but rather…. well, her background so far reminded Dick of himself.

Is that what it was? Damian taking a page out of his father’s book to see through his eyes and prove he was just like him? He understood Alfred’s concerns. Damian might want a friend, but he had no idea what a friendship is, so he might see it through the wrong lenses. He had tracked the girl down, made her go to him, offered her a scandalous offer and then put her through what seemed like a hell-week to prove he had been and she had been wrong, just because she refused him out of nothing but moral principles.

It wasn’t his fault he was never taught how to be a kid.

All the more reason why Damian needed guidance, not judgement. He was _trying_.

“Hey, little D.’’ He greeted cheerfully, landing on the edge of the roof where the boy was perched like a gargoyle, hood pulled on. He hadn’t behaved any differently that night; just as focused and precise as he usually was. “Your inability to abide by our codenames is abhorrent.’’ Okay, so a little testier than usual, then. “Something on your mind?’’ Dick continued in a light tone, undeterred as he plopped down next to the boy.

“Pennyworth has reached out to you, hasn’t he?’’

The kid was too perceptive for his own good at times. “He wasn’t tattling. Just wondered whether you’d like to talk someone else who might offer...a different perspective. I heard she's lost her parents recently and she's your age, so I know a thing or two about that.’’ He said, and watched the boy relax visibly, before sitting on the ledge, one knee pulled up to his chest. Damian really wasn’t that much of a mystery if one was patient and paid attention that underneath the soldier there was still a child. An angry, confused child that never experienced unconditional love and screamed to be accepted by a father who had his own darkness to wrestle with.

“He’s told you already, so why you don’t just cut to the lecture?’’ Damian said, defensively. Testing Dick to see if he was going to use the information against him; he probably saw his interest in the girl as a weakness, something to hide away and possessively keep to himself lest the world might see he had a heart, or perhaps he was worried Bruce might interpret it as such. Talia would certainly have.

Dick shrugged. “He has given me an outline only. I would rather you tell me, though seeing as you know more.’’ He offered, giving the boy the opportunity to come to him if he wanted to rather than force it out. “From what I hear, she and I are not that different, though. At that age at least.’’ The boy struggled with gaining her trust, Alfred said even if Damian would never admit it out loud, he wanted it. 

How ironic.

Damian was silent for a second, and Dick didn’t rush him, didn’t press. “She is a ghost, does not exist on any database.’’ He finally said, voice quiet and hood casting shadows on his masked face. “She has informed me that she has run away from home, after the death of her parents but is not forthcoming beyond that. She displays signs of post-traumatic stress disorder and…. abuse. Psychical and emotional.’’

Ah.

“I see.’’ Grayson nodded. “You think her family may be responsible for her current predicament.’’

“Hnn.’’

So…Damian was worried. In his own strange ways, he wanted to help her. She risked her life by going in that building yet refused to be acknowledged for her efforts which must have discombobulated the boy. His pride must have certainly suffered, and there was an element in all this that spoke of his inability to let go of things when they didn’t go his way. Maybe in this case it could be channelled towards something positive, however.

“Well, I think you did well monitor her, to see if she was in danger.’’ They both knew it wasn’t just that but, focus on the positives. “However, she sounds to me like an independent person. If her family was abusive, it couldn’t have been easy to escape so for her having someone approach her, even with the best of intentions, will only make her more afraid.’’

“- _Tt_ —I know that already.’’

But he has no idea how to gain respect or trust without fighting for it still. She wasn’t a fellow vigilante, one that he could impress with his skills or gain her respect by showing off in battle. He was showing himself before her as Damian, not Robin. That was a sign, the former Robin thought, that Damian wanted her to see him as a person, not the prodigy or the assassin. He wanted to be seen beyond the mask and the identities offered by either one of his parents and Dick wasn't sure he realized it.

He also did not have the tools to reach out to people as just a boy, though. As a child to another child.

The fact that he wanted to, though showed how much he’s changed from the ten-year old brat.

Not that he wasn’t a massive brat still.

“Entering one’s life when they’re still learning to deal with their losses can have a significant impact on their life. It can be either positive or negative.’’

He didn’t elaborate further on that. Dick was mainly talking about himself, and the impact Bruce has had in his life, but he knew Damian had dealt with loss as well. He had left Talia and the League of Assassins, which may not have been a home, but it was all he knew for the entirety of his childhood to stay there by Bruce’s side. He virtually had no allies, part because of his background and part because of his own mistakes.

But Dick had watched him grow. His progress wasn’t linear, but it was there. Maybe that’s why he was trying to reach out to this girl. Because he saw someone who was trying to do good whilst also struggling with being alone and lost in the world.

Be careful with her, is what he was saying.

For both of their sakes.

The boy didn’t respond but Dick knew he’ll mull it over, he’ll understand the hidden message.

“The night is still young. What say we go take down some bad guys?’’

“Hn. Just don’t stand in my way, Grayson.’’

Dick chuckled, as the boy grappled to a nearby roof and let himself fall off the ledge, to sway up in the air.

Nightwing followed right after him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone, 
> 
> As the plot thickens, I would like to offer some insight as to where I draw my characterisation of Damian and other characters. It is no secret obviously that I adore this character/fandom given how much I am writing and I can only hope I do him justice. Now, Damian has been depicted in comic books by different writers throughout the years. 
> 
> Spoilers below for anyone who's not read the comics yet/entirely: 
> 
> My first contact with this character was through Morrison's work. I also found brilliant Tomasi and Gleason's 'Batman and Robin' and it is one of my favourite series. I loved seeing Damian being mentored by Dick Grayson, a character journey that only continued in the Batman and Robin series as it focused on Bruce and Damian's struggles. The plot of Batman Inc will not be considered because I personally found it...out of place with the Dark Knight's desire to keep incognito, but I am thinking of including it as part of a future plot maybe. Damian's death and resurrection are still considered. 
> 
> Did I love Robin, Son of Batman? Yes, but I will interpret it slightly different in my own work. 
> 
> Did I enjoy Damian joining the Teen Titans? Yes, as well as his dynamic with the various characters (as much as it peeves me that they were de-aged). I think that his time around that group has helped his growth even if I didn't always agree with his characterisation. 
> 
> Adam Glass' take on Damian will not be considered. Fun to read, but his characterisation did not feel right when compared to the in-depth one in Morrisons/Tomasi+Gleason/Gleason series. I feel perhaps it came too late, given all the character development in previous works. 
> 
> As usual, I welcome your comments and feedback and I hope you all enjoy my - very lengthy - story. My apologies for any grammatical mistakes -- I am constantly reviewing these chapters catching any glaring mistakes but if there's anything in particular that catches your eye, please let me know.


	9. Of epiphanies, cold showers and Dickens

_"People are more what they hide than what they show.''_

\- Pravinee Hurbungs

.

.

.

Damian Wayne was Robin.

Well.

**_Shit._ **

When she came to it, she found herself staring at the coffered blue ceiling again.

_Maybe it was all a bad dream?_

“You fainted, Miss Fay, because of a panic attack.’’

_Of course not._

Bagheera leaned in her line of vision, pale blue eyes wide with concern. She held his gaze for a few moments, before glancing over to her side where Alfred’s voice came from. He was alone, thankfully. No sight of _him._

“You were only out of it for ten minutes, but perhaps it’s best to avoid further psychical exertion for the day. I shall bring you breakfast, so you may eat in here.’’

That was a thoughtful gesture, but it went unregistered.

“Is—is it okay if I call Dana, now?’’

She didn’t know why but she suddenly wanted to hear the woman’s voice.

“Of course. Your phone was damaged during yesterday’s incident— ‘’ Her whole damn life was made of incidents. “So, you may contact her from the landline.’’ She didn’t say anything, and instead pulled herself against the pillows, making sure to drag the duvet as high as possible, all the way to her neck. The small dog jumped on the bed and tried to snuggle next to her, but she was too distraught to pay him any attention.

She needed time to process everything, to write her thoughts down before they threatened to make her head explode. Minutes later, Alfred brought her a cordless phone and breakfast, before leaving her alone after she offered a weak ‘ _thank you_.’

At one point she wondered if jumping through the window would be easier. Had she been able to fly again, that wouldn’t have been a problem.

She could have been free as a bird.

Alas, that was no longer an option.

.

.

.

“Perhaps criticism is not the best ice breaker.’’ Alfred said dryly when he returned to the main sitting area and saw Damian brooding on the sofa, while the cat stretched itself on his lap.

“Hnn.’’

The butler approached the sofa, sighing. 

“If I may suggest something, Master Damian?’’

.

.

.

Fay sighed when she was finally able to get off the phone with Dana, feeling simultaneously better and worse. Their conversation had been mostly Fay trying to convince the veteran that no, she hadn’t been kidnapped, no, Alfred was not a paedophile, yes, she was safe, no, Dana doesn’t need to take out her bat and hunt down the ‘little shitheads’ who attacked her, and no, Mack couldn’t join her in that venture (she was willing to bet he’d use his spatula). Dana acted as if she was a family member not the orphan child that lived illicitly in the attic of her soup kitchen’s building. It was a truly comforting thought as much as it made her heart wrench painfully; that’s exactly how her family would have reacted as well (if not more dramatic and destructive). 

It made her want to cry but found the strength to hold her tears back, because she knew the woman would hear. 

She told Dana that she had gotten bullied by a group of older boys on the way to the museum, and she had asked Damian’s help because she lost her phone and he had been fastest to reach out to. She wondered how long it’ll take the woman to figure it out that Damian was not just a random kid that volunteered at the soup kitchen, but the heir of Wayne Enterprises. Fay was not prepared to deal with the line of questioning that’d follow, so it was best to keep Dana in the dark for the time being.

After her phone conversation was over, Fay went to the bathroom, turned on the shower again and screamed into a pillow. _Hard._

Hm.

It was rather therapeutic.

Her thoughts were still muddled, and her anxiety made it difficult to clear her mind, so she resorted to one coping mechanism she hadn’t employed in a while. A cold shower. She didn’t even bother to take off her clothes as she stepped inside the shower cabin and turned the faucet to cold, and allowed the water to rewire her emotional state, her levels of norepinephrine and endorphins increasing, overriding the anxiety that clouded her thoughts.

Damian Wayne is Robin.

No wonder he tracked her down so easily because _that’s what he did for a living._

The mother of the boy she found in the building had probably not even reported it. Fay had always found it strange he seemed so clear on what happened, and it was truly embarrassing she hadn’t pieced it together earlier. He had a first-hand account of the events that night, no wonder he’d been so adamant about what took place. She had known Robin was young himself, but she’d never considered it as an odd thing. How many child warriors did her world forge with every generation, even now in the new era?

That world wasn’t like that though, was it? Robby had told her about a group of protectors called ‘Teen Titan’ based in another city – San Francisco? – and that Robin had been a member of himself, so she’d assumed that was just an unofficial guild. That world seemed to be full of them: Justice League, Teen Titans, Batman and all those individuals who bore his symbol. What was worse is that she did hear Mack once mention Robins ‘ _keep getting younger these days’_ and criminals must feel peeved at being beaten by a child, but she’d not made the connection then, either. 

Damn it. How could she have been so slow about it? If she didn’t allow her anxieties and panic attacks dominate her psyche, she wouldn’t have been so oblivious.

Taking advantage of the size of the cabin shower she paced back and forth, both because it helped her think and to maintain a modicum of body warmth. Her fingers and toes were starting to get numb, and her muscles – little she had left – were contracting rapidly, trying to maintain her body temperature at an acceptable level. Bagheera watched warily from the entrance of the shower cabin.

 _Damian Wayne is Robin_.

His father is Bruce Wayne, tech billionaire and genius----and---and….is Bruce Wayne…Batman? It would have made sense in her world, father and son fighting side by side because in most clans it was tradition for old generations to teach the new. Or was he Nightwing? Come to think off, she hadn’t seen Batman at all that night when she first met Robin.

No. Nightwing was rather young himself. 

Damian sought her out purposefully because of that night and he may have spoken the truth about paying her actions forward but his continuous involvement in her life did not make sense. He risked his secret identity. _Maybe he thought I was too dumb to figure it out?_ He hadn’t been wrong on that, had he now.

_Okay. If I was in his place…._

She would have wanted to reward that other person, regardless if they thought they deserved it although she wouldn’t have been as abrupt or criticising or arrogant about it. She wouldn’t have forced it on them or came up with insane proposals or challenges. So perhaps that was just his personality at play. The fact that he hated people saying no to him, that he was so blunt and did not care if he offended others, his rather poor social skills,

Not that she was one to talk about that. 

The question was: how much did he know of her and was that why he kept on insisting on her to accept the deal? To monitor her?

_But he already has resources to do that. If he’s Robin…. he could very easily do that without me knowing._

It was a reality she had to accept that Damian could have been watching her all the time in ways she hadn’t anticipated. She’d anticipated to an extent already, but the only variable now is that he is also dangerous in ways that took away whatever advantage she had left on her end. Fay wasn’t like most children in that world so while she’s failed to prove herself officially in Maysoon, she was still equipped with skills and knowledge beyond her years. It wasn’t anything special, not in her homeland, but there? It should have been the element of surprise.

The universe really had a dark sense of humour sending her down the path of what was possibly one of the few children would not fall for that. How were heroes trained there anyway? Was it from birth? Was it something passed down from the previous generations or did they join an organisation based on their skill and potential? Just how dangerous was Damian? If he could fight side by sight with one of the greatest – in Robby’s words – then he wasn’t just a boy putting on a mask to deal with petty crimes. That night, she had found him in a precarious situation, but nobody is infallible, so she didn’t think his predicament spoke of his capacities necessarily. She could no longer judge him just based on the power his wealth offered, but on his fighting prowess and while she already knew he was a prodigy, she now had to assess his abilities in different parameters.

Intelligent, wealthy and with the potential to have been trained in a manner that she had been, except he was likely not half the failure she was. And she just had to be the one to get his attention.

_Well done, Fay. Serves you well for interfering._

But she might have some leverage. She wasn’t sure how much he knew about who she was or what his true intentions were – Bag did confirm he wasn’t a threat to her, at least for the time being – but Fay didn’t think he knew _she knew_. She wasn’t interested in telling anybody else what she knew or letting him know she did, but she could use that piece of information to guide her interactions with him.

 _I lost the challenge so he should hold his end of bargain._ It was a truly tempting prospect, not having to see him ever again but she doubted that was possible. If he wanted to monitor her, even remotely, he’d keep doing so and she only had so many ways to be cautious. For how long will it carry on? Weeks, months? What if he still monitored her when it was time to leave Gotham? Would he try to stop her if he found out she was going to leave? Follow her to Europe?

She could not allow that to happen, so she was going to need to revise her journey plans. He represented a major complication in her already difficult plan to reach Europe but…. she couldn’t do anything about it. If it really came down to it, she could use her flux – she hadn’t relied on her abilities since her first weeks in that world, for good reasons. But he wouldn’t expect that; there’s no way he would know that she’s capable of _that_. 

_Good, this is good. Focus on facts._

The cold water was a skilled thief in stealing away the heat of her body. Her skin was rough with goosebumps, the numbness was creeping in more and more past her limbs, and she couldn’t feel her face anymore. When the water started feeling so heavy she struggled to stand, she decided it was time to get out, body shaking so hard that it took her a few tries to get the towel off of the rack and wrap it around herself.

Bagheera had to help her back in the bedroom, because she was stiff as a board and shaking so hard, she could barely walk. When she’d passed by the mirror in the mirror, she’d caught a glimpse of her cadaver-like look, grimacing at the sight. Fay soon realized that she didn’t have any spare clothes and while the room was warm, she was going to need more than just the duvet to chase away the cold. Maybe Bag….?

The paladin nudged her towards the door, even before she could try to voice her request for him to keep her warm. Protesting was futile what with her chattering teeth which only allowed a series unintelligible sounds to come out.

Given how that day was already going, she wasn’t surprised when Alfred was nowhere to be found, forcing her to seek Damian out when Bagheera refused to allow her to go back to the room.

.

Brown met green.

What. The. Hell. 

The girl could not be left alone for two minutes or she’d find herself in a predicament of sorts.

Damian was starting to think she was a masochist.

“S-s-s-sor-r-ry, ha-hav-v-e you—you s-s-seen- A-a-a-a…’’ She struggled to get the last of it out, clamping her mouth shut. Had she not been so deathly pale, she probably would have looked like a lobster as she usually did whenever she was embarrassed (which was often). He opened his mouth to ask her if she really was that stupid to give herself hypothermia, but a repeat of that morning’s panic attack was the last thing they both needed in that moment. “Pennyworth has gone out on errands. We’re alone.’’

The way her eyes bulged in horror should have been amusing; she was far too easy to intimidate.

It wasn’t.

“Stay here.’’ He said with a sigh, turning around to walk back into the room he’s claimed for his own while at the penthouse. Moments later he exited carrying a pair of joggers and a hoodie; he was not going to consider clothing beyond that because well…. he’d rather not. Alfred could take care of that later on.

“Any problems?’’ He asked tersely when she gave a dubious look to the clothes. Really, the girl should be grateful he was allowing her to wear his clothes. “N-n-n-no.’’ She shook her head, throwing a few droplets of water as she did and with a pale, trembling hand she accepted the clothes before turning around, no doubt rush back into her room down the hall, like a scared rabbit to its hole.

“Ah, ah, ah.’’ He stopped her. “Not so fast. Get changed and come back out.’’

“W-w-hy…?’’

“Because you are hypothermic. Seeing as you obviously can’t be trusted to be on your own without further worsening your situation, you’ll come stay by the fireplace.’’

“B-b-b-bu-t— ‘’

He gave her a withering, which quickly stopped any further complaints. He waited outside her door, leaning against the wall as his sensitive hearing picked up on her the chatter of her teeth and the clumsy stumble of her feet as she changed. There was a period of silence after that and he wondered if she was thinking of just not coming out, if she was listening whether he was going to make good on his promise or not.

“I will come in and drag you out.’’ He threatened loudly.

Two seconds later, the door opened.

_So predictable._

The clothes were baggier on her than him, emphasizing the several kilos that she was missing but some of her shivering had reduced. Good. 

“Follow me.’’

.

The clothes smelt clean, of…jasmine? And something else, that she couldn’t put her finger on. Maybe that was Damian’s own scent. _And now it was on her._ She’d have felt mortified if she wasn’t so cold, and she shoved her hands inside the pockets of the hoodie he gave her, trying and failing to get them to warm up. They didn’t feel as numb as they did before, pins and needles starting to form at her fingertips, but it had been difficult removing her clothes and bandages, even with her paladin’s help. Her marks were faintly showing against her pallid skin, so she was grateful the clothes were loose, allowing her to hide under them. She had rubbed the excess water out of her hair and pushed it back with her headband.

Damian led them back to the main living room, the one where they’d talked the first time she had been there. The fireplace was under the sleek large TV screen, a square hole in the wall filled with ember flames on Damian lit it up. She sat down on the sofa, relieved to take the weight off her unsteady feet and huddle in on herself, feeling the anxiety fluttering in her heart as she watched him.

He glanced at her, grunted then walked away.

Might she be so lucky that he’ll leave her alone, after all?

Bagheera settled down by the fireplace, and she dug her feet harder in the soft carpet, eyeing the book left on the low table before her. It was a heavy tome, black leather with gold lettering and curiosity getting the best out of her, she reached for it. And of course, that’s the moment he chose to walk back in, startling her. Floundering with the book in her hands, almost dropping it _several_ times, she pulled herself back into the couch clutching on it as if her life depended on it.

Well.

At least her face felt warmer now.

Holding two folded blankets, Damian stared at her with a raised brow and a smug look. “You really can’t be left on your own, can you?’’ He remarked before walking towards her and dropping both blankets in her lap. She would have thanked him had she not been too stunned at watching him plop himself next to her. Granted, he wasn’t sitting as close as he did earlier that morning but _did he have to sit next to her at all?_

With some difficulty she unfolded the blankets and then wrapped them around her, crossing her legs in the hopes it might help her feet get warmer. He’d given her socks too, and they were surprisingly…fuzzy, but her feet were taking longer than her hands in regaining normal circulation.

“Does it help?’’

She didn’t look at him, staring at the fireplace instead, watching the flames dance. “W-w-what d-does?’’

“The cold water. With your panic attacks.’’

_It seems to do the job when I am dealing with you._

She nodded, preferring not to elaborate on it. He doesn’t know, she reminded herself. _He doesn’t know that I figured it out,_ so she needed to keep it that way. Until she had a feasible escape plan, she also had to be extremely cautious about what she said and how she behaved because now more than ever she was certain he was paying attention. She had to understand just how much he knew and what his intentions were. 

“Next time, alternate.’’ This time she did look up, but he wasn’t looking at her, eyes glued to the fireplace as well. “Once you’ve established a temperature with which you’re comfortable, gradually decrease until it is no longer the case, then switch over to the original temperature, increasing it each repetition. You will not risk developing hypothermia or scalding yourself, and it will be effective in recalibrating your nervous system.’’

_He's…. giving me advice? He’s being helpful._

“I— ‘’ She blinked a few times because he continued to throw her for a curve that day. “O-okay.’’ She looked away again. “Thank you.’’ She muttered because well…it was good advice.

She wasn’t new to water therapies. They had been part of her training as it much as it had characterised some of the healer’s techniques. In Maysoon she used to spend hours in water, in equal amounts for leisure and to better understand that element. It was the one that came easier to her because it could be as fluid and volatile as her emotions so she could manipulate it easier. 

“Here.’’

Looking to her left, at the hand tilted in her direction she saw a…a nut bar? It was sealed in a colourful wrapping and the words ‘protein bar’ caught her attention.

She accepted it hesitantly, careful not touch him when she took it from his hand.

“I found them an abhorrent and poor substitution to a meal.’’ He remarked distastefully. “However, you haven’t eaten in over twenty-four hours and you insist on straining your body. The sugar in the bar will keep you from fainting for the time being.’’ Why was he being so thoughtful to her? Was this a way of getting her trust, to get her to open to him? Spill her secrets, maybe?

_That was paranoid. Even for me._

She did feel faint, and her head was throbbing immensely, so she peeled off the wrapping and took a bite. It was chewy, sweet and it had peanuts and chocolate. She would lie if she said she didn’t enjoy it. Alfred’s breakfast had been left untouched in her room and she felt guilty about having had him go through the trouble of serving her in bed just so she could waste it again. As she ate the protein bar, she watched the ferret play with the tail of her paladin who kept moving it out of his way teasingly. The small dog had taken to explore the room, sniffing every nook and cranny before appearing in front of them, looking curiously at Damian with small beady eyes.

Then he jumped on the boy’s lap, placing his paws on his chest, and giving a _long_ lick over his face.

Fay choked at the sight of it, and she coughed slightly, tears prickling at the corner of her eyes.

“I am glad you find this amusing.’’ Damian growled, grabbing the dog to keep him away from his face holding him with both hands. “Don’t make me throw you in the fire.’’ He threatened but there was no heat in his words, as irritated as he may have looked. The dog must’ve sensed that too because he just started wagging his tail and yipping happily.

Then the cat showed up, looking every bit like a person who’s just discovered they’ve been betrayed by their beau. The situation only escalated from there with the cat starting to hiss and the dog whining, and Damian trying to order them as if they’re humans which was increasingly entertaining to witness. Some of her anxiety washed away.

In the end the dog, he jumped on the ground, looking castigated before rushing over to Bagheera to snuggle against him. Big brother that he was to them, her paladin allowed him to do so knowing how impatient the cat could be at times. Victorious, the feline sprawled over the boy’s lap, content at having conquered his undivided attention again.

“Why have you not named them?’’ Damian asked as he stroked the cat’s head.

She watched the cat stare at him adoringly, musing at how animals seemed to be drawn to him. Fay could deny it, but she knew animals were adept at sensing other’s emotional state, so it had to be a sign of his character seeing how comfortable they were around him. Even Bagheera, who sensed and understood human emotions at an incredible level, had relaxed around Damian before.

“I—um, I d-don’t know.’’ Her teeth have stopped chattering, but she was still shivering, so she pulled the blankets tighter around herself, the book still in her lap untouched. The protein bar had made her feel better, reducing some of the light-headedness.

Fay hadn’t named the strays because she knew they’d leave Gotham eventually. The journey was too hard to take them with her, even if she would have liked to bring them home with her. If the cruise ship plan worked, maybe she could do that after all but then there’d be the matter of travelling around Europe with three different companions that didn’t always listen to her commands (the cat didn’t). Worrying about their safety would only be distracting but she did plan on finding them a home before she left. Maybe Robby will adopt the dog, seeing as how much he liked him and had mentioned wanting a pet when he went to the university as he planned on living alone.

“Hnn. Aren’t you going to read it?’’

Full of questions again, wasn’t he? She looked at her lap where the thick book was resting, taking a closer look at the title.

It was a collection of stories by….

“C—Charles Dickens?’’ She opened the hard cover, and with trembling hands she looked over at the index. No wonder it contained almost fifteen hundred pages: it was a collection of some of the author’s most famous works such as Oliver Twist, A Christmas Carol, David Copperfield, Great Expectations and A Tale of Two Cities. She couldn’t help but smile slightly at the sight of those titles. She had read all of them, except for Great Expectations. 

“You’re familiar with his work?’’

She wondered if he knew that already but asked her so she wouldn’t be suspicious. He had been in her attic, hadn’t he? Including her own tattered copy of a Christmas Carol that she bought from Mr. Fitzwilliam’s store. 

“Y-yeah. I re-really like th-this author.’’ She glanced at him. “Is this yours?’’

“Pennyworth bought that for you. He thought it might help with your nerves.’’ Did Damian tell him though, that she liked reading? She looked back at the tome admiring the leathery covers, and the engraved letters. The book was full of colourful illustrations and the paper was slightly glossy, the layout incredibly aesthetic.

It was tempting just accepting it but, “I—I don’t think I can— ‘’

“Do you want to offend Pennyworth by saying no?’’

Well, no. Of course not. The man had been so cordial and polite and thoughtful.

Manipulative ass.

“Um, no.’’ She shook her head. “…thank you.’’ She’ll leave it somewhere before she leaves. Which she wasn’t sure when it would happen at that point. She had told Dana that she will not be back until later in the day and glancing at the clock above the TV, she noticed it was already past eleven. The rain outside showed no signs of easing, and the penthouse felt darker than usual, the glow of the fire casting sharp shadows over the furniture and themselves.

“I think Dickens is an adequate writer enough, but he is unnecessarily verbose, and his characters are far too sentimental.’’ Damian commented suddenly. She blinked, and when he didn’t add anything else, she looked up to find him stare at her expectantly.

Oh. He was expecting her to respond to that. 

Well, when it came to books….

“I don’t---don’t think that. He does de-describe a lot of objects and um, places, and people but…. I enjoy that. The world is not—simple, and so—so why should his. The ones in his books, I-I mean.’’

“You don’t find his writing style tedious and characters outdated?’’

“No-no, of course not. It’s not…modern but that’s normal…right? The books were written a long time ago and people…. wrote differently. I-I think…. people had different lives back then so for t-them it must have been…really entertaining to read his books.’’ She licked her lips. Chapped, tingling as the blood rushed back into them. Her face stung, and the bruises ached all over. Pain in exchange of warmth, it seems. “He—he is not outdated. I think that’s why he is…brilliant. Be-because centuries later, he…he is still relevant. That’s— ‘’ She smiled slightly, her cheeks feeling stiff. “…powerful. Um, that he’s still so popular.’’

“Relevant. How?’’

She paused, to find her words. Her mother had introduced her to Dickens along with several other famous authors in that world. But it was her father who stoked her desire for reading, the solitude and quietness of such a pastime appealing to them both equally.

“They’re…us.’’ She said, staring into the fire, letting it hypnotise her. She could almost hear her father’s words resonate in her head and finding their way onto her lips. “The characters are us. People, I mean. He described the world…as it is, and he managed to show people why they are what they are. He….he saw the world for what it was. Not—not special people, just….re-regular. And he—he did that in that era when people…didn’t really believe in psychology, did they? But….he understood people anyway. I think people like Dickens still because they can relate to the characters.’’

“Hnn.’’

Books had a complicated spot in her life. They were an escape, a distraction, a coping mechanism. But they were also a powerful tie between herself and her parents, they were a bridge between what she knew and the vast unknown, between past and present and they had also been a connection to that world.

“Let me guess. Your favourite novel is Oliver Twist.’’

A presumptuous yet not entirely unfair assumption.

“Um, no. I mean – it’s one of my favourites. But…I really like Christmas Carol.’’ It was similar to other stories from her lands, some of which were not perhaps rooted more in reality than fiction. But the message was the same. 

Damian scoffed at her choice. “Idealistic novel. As if the intercession of Christian-based beliefs can convert away the darkness of a world.’’ She was starting to think he was going to contradict her on everything she said just to aggravate her.

But his cynicism could also be a result of his line of work. After all, didn’t she acknowledge herself how dark and ugly the world could be? It’s not as if she was idealistic about it.

Not anymore.

She took the bait though because books were a relatively safe topic. She might reveal her thinking and knowledge on books but liking to read was not a crime, was it? Or anything unusual. Fay doubted he’ll leave her alone anytime soon, clearly in a mood to rope her in a debate of sorts and as puzzling his behaviour was, she found herself wanting to play along. 

Damn it.

“It is…idealistic.’’ She agreed quietly. “But---if the Ghosts had failed to change him, then…what is the point?’’

“The point is the world doesn’t work like that.’’

“E-exactly.’’

He looked at her, brow quirked. She avoided his gaze, because his eyes looked even brighter illuminated by the glow of the fire, instead staring at the cat sprawled on his lap. 

“The world is…an awful place.’’ She swallowed. “Unfair things happen to good people and…. bad guys get away all the time.’’ She wondered if he’d take offense to that statement. It really was not her intention to insinuate that people like him and Batman did not do a good job. They must have if people loved them so much and Gotham had been deemed a safer place after they’ve started protecting it. “It—it doesn’t matter how many…heroes are in this world. Bad things…will still happen. Good and evil will always exist. And I don’t think…everyone would change like Scrooge did. But—but….it shows that people aren’t born evil, I don’t think. They are…. shaped by their experiences. Good and bad. Some people are taught how to…deal with their pain and others…don’t. Or there’s—there’s too much of it.’’

The cat shifted, lifting its head to glance at her through half-lidded eyes, before putting back down, stretching her body to press herself deeper against Damian’s stomach.

“Scrooge is…like that. He—he had no reason to be kind. Why would he? The world was…awful to him. He had a right to be…upset and angry and…b bitter. It wasn’t okay but…nobody tried to show him otherwise until the Ghosts. The Ghost of Past reminded him of why he was the way he was…but it also reminded him that his life hadn’t been just bad memories. The—the Ghost of Present showed…the impact of his actions and how…how people would have liked to be there for him if he—if he didn’t treat them so badly. They didn’t…understand but they still tried, and he…hadn’t seen that. Then….’’ She was vaguely aware she had started talking far too much but she couldn’t stop herself. Books is how she made sense of the world and the world hadn’t made sense in a while for her. She had only awoken up several hours earlier and she had already experienced a tsunami of emotions. Talking about what she saw in those stories grounded her in unique ways because it was like having an instruction manual for some parts of the world, and she clutched on it because there were also those parts that were frighteningly confusing and dangerous.

“The Ghost of Future shows him what could be. That---that is idealistic. Not everyone gets…. a chance at redeeming themselves and probably…not everyone would want to. But there are people who would and…. I think that’s what matters. That Scrooge did—did take that path. It…shows people that…it’s not always late. That the world---doesn’t have to be all bad.’’

She exhaled, crossing her arms tightly over her chest underneath the blanket, Dickens book still on her lap.

“You think people can be redeemed. The main character was avaricious but not a criminal. Would you think the same if it was a thief like the ones that robbed Wilmot? Or someone who’s taken the life of another? Who abused others? Used them?’’ That felt less like a Damian question and more like a Robin one. He was asking the question as a man – _boy_ \- who imparted justice every day. 

“I---I don’t think there’s…a simple answer to that. It…depends.’’

“On how bad they feel?’’ He was being sarcastic, and she wondered why he wanted to talk about it when it was clearly a sensitive topic.

“…If I person feels no remorse…they won’t change. But---it also depends on how…how they chose to live their life after. Hurting people---‘’ She swallowed and looked away to the fire. “Hurting people can’t be undone. Even---even if they forgive you. So…I think it matters on what…what a person does with that mistake but…there’s other factors too.’’

“You’ve admitted however that not everyone changes. Or wants to. What about them? What do you think the best recourse is for them?’’

 _Isn’t that your job to know?_ She thought a bit sourly. Once, it had been her job to consider that herself.

Damian wasn’t as demanding as he usually was but there was a terseness to his voice that sparked her curiosity further. Did he, as Robin, find it difficult understanding who was deserving or not of a second chance? If so, why seek answers from her? She wasn’t’ even sure she was deserving of forgiveness for her own mistakes, after all. 

“I---I don’t know.’’ There were many answers she could have given, none of which were simple or comprehensive and would have revealed too much of her upbringing if she did. “But…but someone once told me that a person is not defined only by their mistakes.’’

“Do you believe that?’’

“…. I want to.’’ Because that meant there was hope for her too. If her parents had been alive, she wanted to think they would have forgiven and helped her move on. Moving forward did not mean forgetting the impact of her mistakes, it just meant taking the learnings of it and applying them to be a better person next time. But Fay had failed at that and rather than persisting, like they would have, she gave up. In theory she knew the only way was forward, but how was she going to achieve that when she hadn’t been able to find her strength? She certainly did not have the control needed to avoid further errors so just because she wanted to be better, it did not mean it was possible.

And there were plenty the days when she didn’t think she deserved any of it. To be alive, to move forward, to want to get better. It was all a vicious circle that she hadn’t figured out how to break. Her mother would have had no issues achieving that; the woman had experienced great suffering in her lifetime, yet it had failed to break her. Yet Fay still struggled a year and a half later. The hot bubbling emotion that she kept under a figurative lock and key wasn’t quite in agreement. It bore a different type of criticism that one; not directed at herself but the world around her. It was a dark, bitter emotion. Nothing good came out of her listening to it, especially since she knew how easy it could resonate with the deepest parts of her heart.

Fay absent-mindedly ran her finger over the engraved letters on the cover of the book as the silence enveloped them.

There was a sharp stab of pain on her side, and she grimaced, trying to move in a way that shifted her muscles in a more relaxed position but then her hand started hurting when accidentally knocked it against herself. She’d experienced worse pain than what she felt in that moment but Maysoon offered different conditions. For the better or for worse she was surrounded by healers and Moma and her family, so there was never a concern about having her psychical pain alleviated. 

The pain flared in the bruises on her face which only added to her pounding headache. 

“Are you nauseous?’’

“Um, n-no…just…a bit in pain, that’s all.’’

Damian sighed, tutted to himself then raised to his feet much to the indignation of the cat who was forced to interrupt her sleep and relocate on one of the armchairs. Fay didn’t look in which direction he went because moving her head just made it throb harder. Bagheera whined softly and she met his pale gaze, before he got up and left as well, following the boy with the dog in toe. The ferret crawled up the sofa, and into the blankets around herself, snuggling to her side, chittering softly. She reached to pet him, earning higher pitched sounds in return.

About fifteen minutes later she heard the dog yipping with glee, the sound of his smaller footsteps swallowed by Bagheera’s and…Damian’s? Before she could turn her head to look, curiosity overriding her wariness of pain, a plate was shoved under her nose and out of reflex she accepted it. Damian sat down next to her again, but not before plopping a small plastic bottle on the glass table. ‘ _Ibuprofen_ ’. Painkillers. Looking back down at her plate, she saw two pieces of toast with…was that avocado mash? There was also a yogurt cup with seeds and walnuts in it, a spoon shoved in it. She glanced at him and saw him stare at her expectantly, an apple in one of his hands, a chunk missing already missing.

“This is the first and last time I will ever do you such a favour especially seeing as your current predicament is of your own doing.’’ He jutted his chin towards the plate. “Eat up. Then take the painkillers before you faint again. Once was enough, hm?’’

Th—thank you.’’ He reminded her of her uncle, the harsh manner with which he helped her. She wouldn’t go as far as saying Damian was concerned but his gesture was…. kind. Thoughtful. 

She ate everything he put on the plate knowing Bagheera must’ve watched him closely to ensure the boy didn’t tamper with it. When she was finished, she took two of the Ibuprofen pills and swallowed them with the water from one of the bottles Damian brought along.

Their discussion did not end there. Soon he started prodding her on Dickens and his work again; what she thought of the characters, constantly challenging her views, sometimes offensively so but…she didn’t mind it. It felt good talking like that. Books were a safe topic. 

Damian Wayne was a hidden threat.

But not to her. Not yet.

It was his responsibility as a protector of that town to investigate any oddities, anything that stood out of ordinary. She’d be naïve to think she wouldn’t come across as an outlier even in a city like Gotham because Fay simply did not exist in that world so if he did decide to look her up, he would have found that out. She might have as well have been born the moment she showed up in Gotham. It is not unreasonable that he’d want to investigate further, although frankly, Gotham had enough criminals that he could be worrying about.

Robin was a hero, whether she trusted or liked the person behind that identity. He was someone who put a mask on and dedicated his life to protecting the innocent. Like the boy and his dog in that burning building. Robin had been in that situation because that’s what he did: he risked his life for others. 

_He_ did, the boy sitting next to her. Damian Wayne did, as hard as it was to reconcile the two identities as one.

The rude, arrogant, elitist prat was that same boy dressed in armour who patrolled the dangerous streets of Gotham at night. She had dedicated significant time contemplating the connection between the two identities and what it meant to her, but it’s clear there was still so much more she had to work through. Damian was insufferable and obnoxious but objectively, he was one of the _good_ guys. He wasn’t a criminal – _although he did not shy away from illicit offers clearly_ -, he was a warrior of that world.

He wasn’t raised like a normal child, she realised starkly, and suddenly his idiosyncrasies made more sense. Judging by what Robby told her, the position of Robin was a coveted, demanding one. Fighting side by side with ‘ _one of the greatest heroes in that world’_ meant he had to have fulfilled a series of criteria, right? She’d already established that he must very capable to have done so but even with natural talent, he would still have had to train rigorously for the role, to adapt his entire lifestyle to accommodate _his other life_. For someone so young to be this accomplished, she could only imagine how atypical his childhood must be compared to other children in that world.

Just comparing him and Robby made them feel like they were worlds apart.

Ironically, when put in that perspective, she and Damian probably had more in common with one another than she could have ever anticipated. 

The universe truly had a dark sense of humour.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Minor edit made to the plot: 
> 
> #1: In first chapter, Fay thinks about the time she has left to obtain a way back home. It was initially put down as eight months but I've changed it to twelve. Math is not my strong suit. 
> 
> Next update: 7th/9th of February (just proof-reading new chapters).


	10. The beginning of something (I)

_“People don’t tell me what I need to hear. I listen to the unsaid words, observe quietly, read the unspoken words between the lines.  
The words they think, they hide from me. This kind of listening is an art in itself.’’_

Unknown

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.

.

When Alfred finally returned to the penthouse in the early afternoon, he found both children sitting down on the floor before the fireplace…. arguing? No, no. _Debating_. On Dicken’s influence on society, it seems. There was a clear dichotomy between their tones – Damian’s assertive and Fay’s quieter – but they both seemed equally invested in the discussion. Bagheera was laying down next to them watching them curiously while the ferret was insistent on trying to chew the spine of the tome that was placed on the floor between them.

It was the small dog who came up to him, sitting back on his hinges and an earnest look in his eyes.

 _Ah._ So, the creature has learned who was the best person when it came to getting food.

Approaching the sitting area, Damian glanced at him from the corner of his eyes and the larger dog’s ears perked up, head tilting in his direction. The girl stopped mid-sentence and turned to look over her shoulder and Alfred’s eyebrows raised slightly at the sight of the hoodie she was wearing, the damp hair and the two blankets pulled tightly around herself.

Looks like he’s missed an interesting development because in the three hours he’s been gone, Fay had bathed again, Damian has given her spare clothes – from _his_ own wardrobe – and they’ve made progress in communicating one with another. Hm. So the boy has taken his advice to find a common ground with Fay and he chose books.

A wise choice, by the looks of it.

“…hello, Mr. Pennyworth.’’ The girl greeted politely. She looked paler than before, the injuries on her face stark against the skin.

“Miss Fay, Master Damian.’’ He returned. “My apologies for the interruption. I shall go prepare a late lunch.’’

Fay looked mildly surprised and she turned to glance at the clock above the TV, “Oh…I didn’t realise it got so late.’’ She mentioned. Some of the usual tension returned in her shoulders and she turned towards him again likely to politely decline but Damian beat her to it. “The ibuprofen will wear off soon, and if you want to take any more, you need to eat again.’’ His tone left no space for arguing. 

The girl frowned, looking slightly reluctant but then nodded.

“O-okay. Thank you, Mr. Pennyworth.’’

Perhaps she’ll rub off some of that politeness onto the boy as well.

“Pennyworth--bring some tea. China cup, brown sugar not white.’’

That shall be a miracle, indeed.

.

.

.

Lunch was a quiet affair, and the awkwardness returned along with the dizzying thoughts about how strange that day was turning out to be. Alfred served them chicken and mushroom with a type of rice cooked in broth that he had termed ‘ _risotto_ ’, a dish native to Italy. It was sublime, and she had ended up eating everything even if she had to do so at a slower pace than Damian, whom to his credit hadn’t commented on it nor rushed her. It was hard not to feel paranoid about this change in their…whatever they had going. It wasn’t friendship, it wasn’t an alliance, but they weren’t exactly strangers either.

Eating had given her time to reflect further. Damian was still a brash character, especially when he disagreed with her opinions despite asking for them in the first place and she had wondered several times throughout their discussion whether he was testing her patience on purpose. Just to see how she’d react. He had managed to exasperate her enough times, but she hadn’t felt…anxious anymore. If anything, she had felt compelled to engage in the discourse, she had… _enjoyed it._

Crap.

If he wanted to gain her trust to find more information, then it made sense why he’d suddenly want to engage her in that manner. He had seen the books, hadn’t he? So, at the very at least he knew she had an interest in them, just as he knew about how naturally curious, she was given how many times she’d gone to the museum. She hated herself for the sliver of disappointment she felt when after eating they did not continue their conversation, chalking up the traitorous emotion to loneliness. It was the first time in her life spending so much time away from her homeland and family simultaneously, with barely any familiar elements around her.

Yes, that’s it was. It had to be.

Damian led her back to the study, instructed her to take a seat on one of the armchairs and then walked over the desk, lifting the leather portfolio on top of it and turning around to face her. It was the portfolio he’d given her not too long ago, she realized, and staring at it with a mix of horror and confusion.

_He can’t be serious---_

“It’s all yours.’’ He handed her the portfolio. “The new identity, the money and all other benefits detailed last time. There are no expectations of you to complete any further work for myself or the museum. ’’

She hesitantly grabbed it, half-expecting him to pull it back and say he was just mocking her. Except he leaned back against the desk, arms crossed over his chest, looking at her expectantly. She couldn’t read his expression properly, but she didn’t detect any smugness or amusement.

He was serious. 

“…Why?’’ She blurted. “I---I failed the challenge. You said—you said I had to be on time with everything, especially on Monday.’’

“Do you know how many questions you got right?’’ He asked calmly, not even waiting for her to respond before continuing. “I’ve asked you two hundred and thirty-two questions. A hundred and seventy were correct, and seventeen additional ones were only partially so but altogether, you scored eighty. The same exact questions have been offered to the other candidates, as a two-hour examination part of the recruitment process and the highest score was ninety-seven by Richards, followed by Wilmot at ninety-one and Stratford at eighty-nine’’

Fay opened her mouth, but nothing came out as the information sunk in her brain. She had scored lowest out of all candidates but that wasn’t what left her bewildered. First, she hadn’t known she was being measured against the others and second, 80% was still a significantly high score. If he had asked her how much she thought she’d gotten, she would have probably assumed no higher than sixty percent. 

“You do not have their skills or qualifications, which you’ve attempted to make up for by studying intensively, even at the expense of sleep. You refused to take time off from helping Mercher even if she would have likely agreed and gave you more time to dedicate to the challenge, increasing your chances to win. You are not the pushover you appear, seeing as you’ve rejected my offer twice even if you’re afraid of me.’’ Of course, he would have noticed. He paid attention to people as much as she had been taught to do, except he had the confidence and focus she painfully lacked.

“You’ve not complained about any of the tasks, even when you ended up having to walk for approximately thirty miles around Gotham. I never stopped quizzed you throughout the week, either. Comparatively you were disadvantaged significantly, as you faced stress factors they did not. They had the same material to prepare themselves over, but the environment in which they conducted the test was designed to make them comfortable.’’ He raised an eyebrow. “Do you understand what I am getting at?’’

She did. She may have not been on the receiving end of praise for a while now, but she recognized his acknowledgement. Eighty percent was a high score when her circumstances were taken in consideration, and…. she found it harder to breathe suddenly.

Not because of anxiety.

Because she hadn’t expected to feel the rush of pride in her veins. Her self-negative thoughts tempered the emotion, reminding her that it wasn’t such a surprising result when one considered she’d been raised absorbing large quantities of information, and to deal with incredibly stressful situations beyond years. But…. _but it’s not the same_ , she thought, fighting against her own complexities because learning about that world was a challenge day in, day out and there far more disadvantages than not. 

“I---I think so. Yeah.’’ She breathed. “…wait. What--what about yesterday?’’

“I meant what I said earlier about your recklessness. However, you have also just proved I had been right all along. You would put your life before others like you have weeks earlier, so it also proves that this entire challenge had been unnecessary on your end to prove you’ve earned the reward.’’

“I…’’ She stared at the portfolio on her lap, feeling conflicted about whether to accept it or not, especially now that she knew about his identity. Did he really want to reward her so much for something she didn’t even consider heroic? “Why…Why did you offer me to work for you then?’’ She had to ask it. She had to know. “You…went through all this, but why?’’

“Call it curiosity.’’

“…Curiosity.’’ She repeated lowly, looking at him again.

“You have said it so yourself. The world is a dark, unfair place where suffering and death make no exceptions for good people. Justice is certainly not a guarantee, just look at Gotham and its maniacs.’’ He’d know better than anyone else, he had to face them on a regular basis. “You have experienced suffering, yourself, have you not? You ran away from your family and have had to survive on your own. Yet you continue to risk your life for others. Why?’’

“Because…’’ Her voice trailed off, mind scouring through the many answers she could have given, searching for one that’d not reveal too much of herself. “Because…it was the right thing to do.’’ She said finally and it was no less genuine than her other answers. It had been the right thing to do, helping Helen; in her world it wouldn’t have been considered reckless what she did but her duty. It wasn’t just that, however. The values _they_ instilled her will always be there. They were a fundamental part of who she was, one of the few _that night_ hadn’t taken away by the grief and fear.

“Just like that?’’ He challenged.

“Yes.’’ The world would not get better just because of that one action but…” Just like that.’’…maybe it did for the one person. That was enough.

“Well, you’ve answered for yourself, have you not?’’

“No…no. Wait…’’ Was he seriously saying that everything that transpired – the stalking, the offer, the incentive, and the generosity- was because she deserved it? “No, it doesn’t.’’ She said determinedly. “You didn’t---have to-to keep offering me things or..the challenge. Even---even if you were right, you could have just...’’ She shrugged. “I don’t know, found another way to give me the money…?’’

He smirked. “Yes, but then you wouldn’t know I was right, as well, hmm?’’

Insufferable, arrogant, obnoxious, assho— “Then I don’t want it.’’ Screw it. He made her go through so much emotionally, why did he have to be the one to be victorious in all of this? At least she’ll have some dignity. “You—said this wasn’t a game but…it was. Just to prove a point.’’

“I was right about you---‘’

“So was I, then.’’ She cut him off, raising to her feet because having to look up at him – she was taller than him, damn it! - just made her feel more vulnerable.

He gritted his teeth. “Your stubbornness is ridicu—‘’

“You don’t know anything about me.’’ Fay cut him off, feeling the emotion-not-to-be-named bubble up to the surface. He may have observed how much she struggled emotionally, but he did not understand the source of it, did not understand why she was the way she was. “You-You have no right to—to make me go through…all of that just because you wanted to be right.’’

He straightened, and they faced each other.

“Admit it, I am not the problem here.’’ He straightened; shoulders pressed in a straight, taut line. “The problem is you thought you’d fail, and you were proven wrong. Winning didn’t fit with your perspective of you own self-worth, so you prefer to find fault within my reasoning than admit that you earned it. Was it all an excuse then? When you said you did not deserve it?’’ She opened her mouth, but he just barrelled on, stepping closer towards her, chipping away at any sense of courage she managed to muster. “I gave you the chance to prove yourself, because you were too principled to accept the offer and you _did_.’’ He was less than an arm’s length away from her and she could see the gold flecks around his irises. “Why do you find it so hard to accept it?’’

“ _You’re a loser.’’_

_‘’Did you see how she embarrassed herself out there?’’_

_“You have failed the mission. I was wrong, you weren’t ready.’’_

_“We expect no less than excellence from this child and yet her lack of control and discipline continue to bring shame.’’_

“I…’’ She couldn’t answer. Not without baring herself in a way that’d be sure to have devastating consequences for both her heart and their position in that world. 

He was right, though. She had been the one to tell him she didn’t think she deserved anything he offered – she still didn’t – and he had responded in kind, rather than leaving her alone as she had expected (isn’t that what everyone did with her?). She hadn’t expected him to the issue challenge, and it threw her off, but she had convinced herself of an impending failure because _it had been easier._ Being a loser hurts less when you’ve already resigned yourself to it.

“You enjoyed it, didn’t you?’’ He asked, head tilting slightly to the side, staring at her as if she was an open book. Was she truly that transparent?

 _Yes…I did_. Underneath the exhaustion, and the aggravation he caused her she had felt purposeful. That’s why she had felt different. She may have not stopped grieving or thinking about her parents and her homeland, but those thoughts had to compete with her desire to learn, with her focus on completing his tasks, with---simply wanting to do something else than just fill her day with distractions to keep the memories at bay. 

In Maysoon her days were filled with challenges too, and Damian’s, as harsh as it may have been, would not hold a candle against what she’s had to put up with back home, the expectations and the pressure. Unlike in her homeland, however, she had gone through his challenge unfettered because there were no judging eyes, no elders to scoff at her, no constant reminders of whom she had to live up to, no constant whispers behind her back of how broken she was, of how little control she had, of how could someone like her possibly be _their_ daughter.

Damian had been demanding and he’d given enough blows to her self-esteem but at the end of the day he was never going to be worse than those in Maysoon. At the end of the day, if she failed, she’d just be back to where she started and she’d have a plan B to rely on, as difficult as it would be to put in motion, so she had not worried about disappointing anybody. There had been something liberating – and cowardly- about already considering herself out a loser, because she hadn’t worried about what he thought of her. Failing his challenge, wouldn’t have taken anything away from her person like it would have in Maysoon. At worst she’d have lost the opportunity to repay Dana and the others quicker which she was going to make it happen one way or another.

It was staggering he had realized that before she did.

He had also just confirmed how much attention he’s been paying to her.

“I will hold my end of bargain in our communication ending here if you’re worried about that.’’ Damian said. “But it’s useless to lie to yourself about it.’’

Really.

After they’ve spent hours discussing Dickens, now he was just going to tell her that they could just go back to strangers? His presence in her life had discombulated her, he had forced deeply buried emotions to resurface and _now_ he was going to decide to leave her alone? She was tempted to say yes. She’d accept all that he offered, then she’d decide whether to use any of it, before walking away from him. 

Damian Wayne could be out of her life. Permanently.

Except.

She didn’t know if Robin would. It was Damian who was giving her a choice, but who was to say that he’d really, truly leave her alone?

“…my help was never really needed, was—was it?’’ She asked tentatively.

“I did not lie about that. An initiative is planned to go live next week in obtaining feedback from a wide range of audiences with a primary focus on schools. There will be other volunteers allowed to support, so you would have just been one of them, officially speaking.’’ Unofficially, she’d be getting thousands of dollars for what sounded like minimal work. 

“I…I will accept. The offer.’’ She said after a moment. “But---I still think it’s too—too much, so…would it be okay if I paid some of it back by, he-helping?’’

“How original, why is it I haven’t thought of that?’’ He scowled, sarcasm colouring his voice. “Fine. But you _will_ work for it. Same standards as until now.’’ He warned.

She nodded. “O-okay.’’

.

.

.

“Thank you again, Mr. Pennyworth.’’ Fay said after slinging the duffel bag over one shoulder. He had dried and ironed both her old and new clothes, but she had left the penthouse wearing the ones Damian gave her because by the time she’s realised it, she was already in the car on the way to the soup kitchen. Neither one of them had commented on it so it had to be alright, although she found it very embarrassing. They weren’t friends or siblings so wearing his clothes like that felt….out of place. Inappropriate. As if she was allowing him to take hold of just another piece of her life.

The rain had receded into a light drizzle by the time Alfred parked on the quieter alley near the soup kitchen. It wasn’t particularly cold, but she shivered all the same when she stepped out. That cold shower had really messed with her internal heat; had the bracelets not been crippling her flux as they did, she could have taken care of it.

Alas, that was a last resort option.

“You are most welcome. Are you sure you do not wish me to speak to Miss Mercher?’’

She shook her head. “N-no.’’ _She thought you were a paedophile._ “I—um, I will just explain everything to her.’’ She glanced down the narrow alley, at the familiar staircase, and the bins separating it from the back door of the kitchen. There was nobody there, but she could hear the chatter of people echoing from the canteen, and Mack’s radio. He always turned it so loud.

“Oh! I almost forgot.’’ She whirled around, reaching towards her backpack which Bag was carrying by the straps. The ferret and the cat had each been placed in two different carriers, but the dog had been let loose, keeping close to Bagheera the entire time. Once they were both out of the car, he had taken to sniff the familiar scents of the alley.

She pulled out the heavy book and showed it to Alfred. “I sort of…just took this but I should have asked you if it’s okay. It looks— ‘’ she glanced down at the engraved letters. “—like an expensive edition and—and you’ve already been so generous to me so…’’ In theory, she now could afford paying for it, but she would have still been using Damian’s money to do that, so she saw no point in offering.

Alfred stared at the book with a curious look, before shaking his head. “Not at all, Miss Fay. That was a gift from Master Damian, so it is all yours.’’

_“Pennyworth bought that for you. He thought it might help with your nerves.’’_

“D—Damian?’’ She repeated in case she’s heard that wrong. “He---he bought it. For me?’’ As in he specifically went out of his way to get her a book, then lied about it.

“Yes. He is a fan himself of Dickens although perhaps not quite as ardent as yourself, from what I hear.’’

_WHAT?!_

“Are—are-are you sure?’’ She blinked rapidly, brain buffering.

“Yes, of course.’’ If Alfred found it annoying that she had him repeat himself so many times, he didn’t show it. “Okay, um…. thank you.’’ She slid the book in her backpack, closed the lid and handed it back to her paladin. She took the ferret out of the cage, holding him with her good hand and released the cat from the other, who hadn’t been particularly enthusiastic about leaving her new favourite person behind. Fay had half a mind to just leave her at the penthouse because she’d seemed happier there.

“Have a good afternoon.’’

“You—you too, Mr. Pennyworth.’’

It was only seconds after Alfred drove away that the door to the kitchen swung open, the sound of rusty hinges echoing down the alleyway. Fay froze on the spot, watching as Dana exited holding a heavy rubbish bag in one hand and her phone in the other, which she was looking at unhappily.

_Is it because of me?_

The small dog barked happily, rushing to her and the woman jumped, startled upon seeing the dog. Then she looked up, making eye contact with Fay who smiled nervously in return. “Um, hi.’’

“….’’

“….’’

_“What the hell happened?!’’_

.

.

.

“Damian…Wayne? As in Wayne Enterprises?’’ _Yes. And Robin too, defender of Gotham, Batman’s partner. The bane of my existence._ Lord. Robby would have a meltdown if he knew. _He’d probably ask for an autograph first, though._ Fay nodded, as she sat down the bean bag in the attic, leaning back slightly to take some pressure off her bruised side. She had taken another two ibuprofens after lunch, but Alfred had told her she could take another two day, if she waited at least four hours in-between.

Dana opened and closed her mouth a few times, looking lost.

_You and me both._

“Okay, I am going to need a bit more context. If that’s okay with you.’’ Fay would have preferred Dana didn’t know at all but lying would only complicate things and plus, she’d eventually figure out who Damian was. He may not have made many public appearances, as he had admitted himself, but everyone in Gotham knew to one extent or another who the Waynes are. Kings’ sans crowns and official titles.

So, Fay told Dana that she met Damian at the museum, and they became friends, which was a surreal and hysterical thing to say. She wasn’t sure what they were – business partners? stalker and his victim? – but they were certainly not friends. Fay also told her that she hadn’t known who Damian was until after the canteen incident, but it made little difference as she didn’t care about his status (she didn’t, not in the way others would have).

The woman had understandably looked concerned: it wasn’t as if she couldn’t be friends with Damian just because he was rich, but Dana was worried he might be inevitably putting her in unpleasant situations. Surely the wealthy Wayne heir would not want to jeopardise his reputation if anyone knew about Fay’s own status? Fay had asked herself that many times over, and the bells would always go off in her head, but she’d be a hypocrite if she judged Damian in that manner. After all, the same could have been said about her not too long ago (some people, did, in fact and they weren’t half as diplomatic as Dana was).

“Do you have…. a crush on him?’’ It was a good thing Fay was sitting down or she might have collapsed. She was too young to have a heart attack, but she came close to it in that moment. “I am sorry---I am not trying to pry, nor I am judging you for it. It’s normal at your age.’’

Fay just stared at her horrified. “W-w-what?’’ _Please, please don’t tell me she’s saying what I think she is._

Dana shrugged. “I mean, you are a bit young but he’s a cute kid, and you’re really sweet. I had my first kiss at twelve so--’

“Please stop.’’ Fay begged in a pained voice. She’d rather be kicked again than having to sit through that kind of conversation. Was her face on fire? It felt like it was on fire. She wasn’t sure of many things most times, but she was positive she did not like Damian that way (even if he did have pretty eyes). She wasn’t sure she even liked him as a person, considering half of the times he scared her.

“Sorry.’’ Dana smiled sheepishly and gently grabbed her good hand to pat it in a comforting gesture, just like Helen had done the previous day. “I am sorry Fay. I have no right to ask these questions, I know but I just want to make sure you’re safe. I hope this is just…you know, a friendship but I don’t want to see you get hurt. You are a clever girl, and I know Bag will keep you safe, but he is…well a very rich person with a lot of connections, if you get what I am trying to say?’’

“He’s powerful.’’ Fay nodded. “So—so he could hurt me.’’

“Clever, what did I say?’’ That was a low bar to achieve, but Dana couldn’t have known how much experience Fay had with powerful, affluent individuals. “I am not saying rich kids can’t be friends with well…someone in your position. You absolutely deserve friends.’’ _No, I don’t._ Nobody wants to, anyway. “It might be a really positive thing for you but…someone like Damian gets a lot publicity. And he---well, his family could have…. enemies. I am not trying to scare you---‘’ The woman stammered, caught between trying to advise her and not overstepping any boundaries.

Fay felt a wave of affection for her, because Dana really did see her as just a normal kid in an unfortunate situation. If only she knew.

“I-I understand. My family— ‘’ She stopped herself, realizing what she’d blurted. Dana just stared at her with a quirked brow but didn’t press it. Fay felt obliged to at least offer some information in return for how much concern the woman was showing her, so she continued. “My…parents taught me. To-to be careful, I mean. They weren’t…rich but um, I get it. He might….be using me or he might not want to be my friend for long so-so…I am not raising my hopes. I know people can—use other people like that.’’

Dana smiled ruefully. “You always think ahead, don’t you?’’ Fay shrugged. It wasn’t anything special. She was a rather paranoid individual, part taught, and part gained through a series of mistakes and negative experiences. 

“Please don’t tell anyone about this.’’ Fay added. She didn’t think Damian would retaliate against Dana if their arrangement fell through but…people can be deceiving. “I—I don’t want anyone to find out we’re, um…. we know each other.’’ The woman shook her head, as she let go of Fay’s hand. “I am no interested in that all that paparazzi bullshit. But all I am asking is that you tell me, at any point if you feel unsafe or if he’s no longer----friendly.’’

Fay only had six weeks to put up with Damian, if not earlier. He had confirmed that should she want to sever ties; she could do so at any point. He wasn’t lying: Bagheera would have sensed it.

“How bad is it? Do you want me to look?’’ Dana asked gently when Fay shifted in the bean bag and flinched slightly, hand going to her side instinctively.

Fay shook her head. “I am just bruised but...it’s okay. Mr. Pennyworth has given me a cream and it helps.’’

“Mr. Pennyworth, huh?’’ Dana raised a brow, looking bemused. “He is no grandfather, is he?’’

Not in the literal sense, no but Fay had started to suspect Damian perhaps did see him that way to an extent. “Not really.’’

Brown eyes stared with a mix of amusement and apprehension at the duffel bag then at Fay’s shoes and clothes. “Generous, aren’t they?’’ Fay nodded. “Just…be careful, okay? I know I sound like a broken record but— ‘’

“It’s okay…. I don’t mind. I appreciate it.’’

She really, really did.

“Want go to the big supermarket with me today? If you feel well enough.’’

Fay wanted time to think but she could tell the woman was asking for both of their benefit.

She didn’t have the heart to say no.

.

.

.

Later that evening, back in the familiarity of her shelter, she had decided to clean and re-organize it, still feeling energetic despite that day feeling like three in one. They’d returned to the attic right before the dance instructor arrived followed by his group of twelve or so students, turning the music loud as he usually did, the vibrations sending dust shivering off in small clouds from between bricks and the corners of the space she hadn’t reached.

Fay waited until they were done to move all the boxes down in the storage room that Dana used, as Damian said he’ll have someone come and collect them in the next days. With her attic freed, she had dusted and vacuumed and re-arranged the fairy lights around the beams above her head, having bought new ones during her shopping excursion with Dana. Her small fridge was filled with food for the strays as well as some fruits and yogurt. The plastic box she kept next to it was filled to the brim with sweet and savoury snacks. 

Once her shopping was put aside, she emptied the duffel bag, smiling slightly at how nice her clothes smelt as she put them aside in the plastic drawer where she kept the others, although not folded as nicely. Looking down at herself, at the trousers and hoodie – _his clothes_ \- she decided to get changed and made a mental note to have them cleaned before returning them.

Bagheera watched from his place sprawled on the inflatable mattress as she sat on the floor, back propped against it. Alfred had thoughtfully put a first-aid kit in her duffel bag along with the painkillers, and some sugar-dusted waffles packed away in a plastic container. From her backpack she pulled out her personal items, the leather portfolio Damian left her with, the rectangular box containing her new phone and all the loot she found at the thieves’ apartment, which she tucked away in a plastic bag. She had to find a way to return them, or otherwise what had been the point of taking them with her?

She studied the portfolio carefully, freely jotted down notes and thoughts in her journal, and revised her plan to go to Europe not that she had more money. The phone, she’d found, had been charged and left turned on, because it had vibrated briefly inside the box startling everyone in the attic. Picking it out of its container, she flicked her thumb up making the screen flicker to life.

‘ _Tomorrow. 14:45, at the museum.’_ The contact name appeared as ‘D.W’, just as it did in her previous phone.

Damian had been with her for the better part of the morning, even when Alfred had handed her the duffle bag with the new phone.

Which meant that he had already set up the phone long before it came in her possession.

Which meant he knew he’d prepared on her saying yes.

No, no, wait. He hadn’t made any offers that day, he just told her that she was free to take the money and benefits, but that she wasn’t expected to work for him for it.

She had been the one to offer to help this time around---

\--- ** _oh no._**

He had manipulated her into offering herself in his employment, by pointing out – accurately – how much she’s enjoyed the challenge and leaving her no room for debate on why she felt she was underserving of his offer. He made her think it had been her idea when he was just reeling her back in like a fish that’s just bit on bait.

“ _Arggh!!!_ ’’

Bag and the strays just stared at her confused as she grabbed a pillow to scream in it again.

Robin or not, hero or not, he was still a despotic, arrogant, obnoxious boy. 

So much for thinking she was clever in keeping enemies closer.

Because the enemy wanted to keep her close too.

.

.

.

_9 th of September_

“Please---please don’t cry, Mrs. Wilmot.’’ Fay was a stiff as a board as Helen held her in a bear hug, vanilla perfume making her eyes water. The woman started talking very fast about how happy and grateful she was and apologising repeatedly if Fay got hurt because of her. The girl awkwardly accepted the embrace, uneasy with her private bubble being trespassed in such a manner, regardless how much she liked the woman. Bagheera made a sound, which sounded suspiciously like a chortle, and she glared at him from the corner of her eyes, over the woman’s shoulder.

Helen was hugging her so enthusiastically that she almost lifted Fay off the floor, not that it was a difficult feat.

“I, um, ---can’t really breathe, Mrs. W-Wilmot.’’ Four days after the incident, the bruises have faded considerably, but her muscles still felt tender. Helen instantly let her go, eyes watery and she gasped. “Oh duckie, I am so sorry!’’ Fay shook her head, forcing a smile. “It’s—it’s okay.’’ Just to be on the safe side, she took a couple of steps back from the woman.

Helen was wearing a new suit, tailored to fit her form and the dark blue colour suited her complexion. Her brown hair had also been cut recently, styled in soft shoulder-length curls that did make her younger. 

“You look very nice, Mrs. Wilmot.’’ Her smile widened, a bit when she saw the badge pinned to her blazer mentioning ‘Program Manager, Helen Wilmot’. “Congratulations.’’

“Oh shush, you. I should be thanking you. I don’t know how you did it but thank you.’’ The woman said whole-heartedly, reaching to pat her shoulder. Fay nodded, and didn’t stop smiling, an unfamiliar level of delight filling her up at seeing the woman having succeeded in her role. Damian hadn’t told her anything about it when she was at the manor, but as Helen informed her, Rochester had agreed to allow her to present her proposals a day later. Richards also received the Program Manage role, and they’d be working with each other very closely while Stratford had to settle for the Project Assistant role. Fay would lie if she said she did not feel rather satisfied about that part of the news. 

Helen left her shortly after that, mentioning that she had a meeting with the board members for the first time which she was both scared and excited about, but made Fay promise that she and Bagheera would come by for dinner. The least she could do, she said.

Two months earlier Fay would have panicked at the prospect of doing so.

Now? She was considering it. It hadn’t been too bad last time they went there and Bagheera secretly enjoyed roughhousing with the twins.

.

.

.

“Seriously.’’

“Um, well—well---I—‘’ She gestured with her hands, doing a poor job at aiding herself in explaining why she was in possession of thirteen different wallets, three pairs of car keys likely useless and a plastic bag full of jewellery from watches to earrings and rings, and even some necklaces. “I—panicked, okay? There—there was this picture— ‘’ She raised the dark-red wallet up and flipped it open, a bit too violently because she almost slapped herself with it. “—of this little girl. The wallet has four hundred dollars in it. What—what if it’s the only man the person had? For their family.’’

Damian continued to stare at her with a look that clearly said, ‘ _are you an idiot’_.

She shrugged. “I…just felt bad.’’

“You felt— ‘’ He sighed, pressing his thumb and index against the bridge of his nose, reminding her very much of her uncle whenever he was exasperated. Damian acted more like a middle-aged man than a child. “And what would you like me to do with them?’’

 _Your job_ almost left her lips but instead she smiled sheepishly at him. “I don’t know. I thought—maybe you could help me find who some of the people are? M-most of these have a driving licence inside with their address.’’

“How exactly are you planning on delivering them? You do realize you could get reported as a thief.’’

She ignored the condescension in his voice. “I was just going to—to deliver them anonymously, maybe? Like…p-put them in a box?’’

“Fine. I will see what I can do, but don’t count on me finding out who these people are. You’ll dispose of any you can’t track, got that?’’

Liar. _I see through you now Damian Wayne and you are a liar._ She thought with no small amount of satisfaction. A few weeks earlier she would have believed his act.

“Okay.’’

“Put this aside before anyone else sees it, making me an accomplice to your idiocy.’’ _Says the boy who has forged her a new identity illegally._

Perhaps knowing he was Robin was more of an advantage that she had originally thought.

It was easier to tell when he was full of crap.

.

Two days later, he told her that the matter of returning the personal effects had ‘been taken care of’ in an anonymous way so she didn’t need to worry.

Fay wondered if he really did have them delivered anonymously or if he did it himself as Robin.

.

.

.

13th of October was when her six weeks would be up and she’ll be several thousand dollars richer, which should allow her to purchase the cruise ships for Dana and herself easily, pay off some of Robby’s pre-med course fees and help Mack with putting money aside for his dream food truck that he’s spoken to her about recently. It wasn’t enough to repay them for their kindness, but it was a good start. 

She also had six weeks to gauge just how much Damian knew about her – and how much more he wanted to find out. If he wished to monitor her beyond their arrangement then leaving Gotham will be harder, as it will be hiding her plan to travel thousands of miles away.

Damian Wayne was Robin.

He was a threat.

Not to her, not yet but she had to keep that information at the forefront of her mind, so she didn’t lower her guard.

As she’d later discover, it was easier said than done. 

.

.

.

_11 th of September_

“You’re healing well.’’ Damian remarked a few minutes after she’s walked in the office and had settled in one of the armchairs. “Any pain?’’ Fay frowned but shook her head. She was glad the bruises were fading away, but she hoped she wasn’t healing _that_ fast. It might rouse suspicion.

“Hnn.’’ He pushed the lid of his laptop closed then pulled out something from one of the drawers next to him and slid it across the desk towards her.

It was a book.

Of Mice and Men by John Steinbeck.

“Are you familiar with it?’’

She shook her head.

“Then get started on it. First fifty pages. I have a meeting to attend so I expect you to be done by the time I am back.’’

As it turns out many of their meetings would end up in discussions around books and have nothing to do with actual work.

.

.

.

_12 th of September _

He was a maniac! _A complete, utter maniac!_

Two days earlier, Damian had sent her a rigorous diet plan to stick by which as she quickly found out, was **not** optional if she wanted to keep ‘volunteering’ at the museum, as people assumed, she was. She had ignored the food plan the first day thinking he was _making suggestions_ in that assertive, impolite way of his but when she’d later met him at the museum, he had given her an entire lecture about nutrition, and malnourishment and ‘ _how her self-neglect cannot reflect on the Wayne name regardless if she was an employee or not’_.

It was a very _long_ lecture. Fay thinks Damian and her uncle would have gotten along rather well.

They could both be such uptight bores.

Alas, Fay was to eat five small meals sparse throughout the day, no earlier than six in the morning and no later than seven in the evening. He had even given her times to abide by, because meal timings would train both her mind and stomach to become accustomed to the intake of food. In three weeks, if she adapted successfully, the meals could be reduced to three a day but bigger in portion. She could still eat the lunch meals she usually goat the soup kitchen provided they were healthy enough, and most days she could order dinner at the museum where she’d generally be until six, anyway. Breakfasts and later dinners had to be ordered as takeaway, and she was only allowed to deviate if she was allergic or she felt unwell.

Even if she was off, she still had to abide by the food plan, and he’d provided her names where she could order takeaways, chosen by himself obviously based on quality, hygiene, and health benefits.

Oh, and she had to provide receipts for those items she had to buy on a regular basis like yogurts and seeds and fruits.

_Receipts!!_

To his credit, he did give her a separate pre-paid card to use for the groceries.

Small consolation given he also wanted her to weigh herself on a weekly basis and monitor headaches and any other symptoms such as dizziness and nausea.

He was a maniac.

But a week later into his rigorous plan she weighed half a kilo more. 

Two weeks into it, she felt stronger psychically.

.

.

.

_14 th of September_

She fidgeted with the sleeves of her jumper, making a mental note to go shopping for thicker clothes as the weather was getting colder each day, while waiting for Damian to finish reading the printed papers she’d given him.

Her proposal. The one she’d never gotten the chance to hand in. She was hoping he wouldn’t have asked but Helen told him that their newest initiative – to engage with a wider range of demographics – was something that Fay broached in her own proposal. She liked the woman, but in that moment, she had wished Helen didn’t talk so much. 

Of course, he wouldn’t let go of it until she gave him the papers.

She had a feeling that out of gratitude Helen was inadvertently making her work seem more interesting than it was.

It wasn’t.

With only three days to spare, she had only managed to gather thirty-odd accounts out of the fifty people that she approached. Dana had been instrumental in helping her out, but Fay hadn’t really thought about targeting a particular demographic. Her primary aim was to have other people respond to the ‘why the museum’ question themselves; to understand whether it occupied a special place in their heart or if they associated a particular moment of their lives with it, hopefully a positive memory. Dana had for example, told her how she loved taking Robby to the museum when he was younger because it made him so gleeful even if she’d get bored; Mack told her that he liked to take his nieces and Robby himself told her he used to enjoy having lunch in the cafeteria with his mother, after each visit.

Henry, one of the veterans, told her that going to the museum was a past-time he indulged in frequently because it kept him distracted. Fay understood what he meant even if he didn’t elaborate.

Gloria told her that she and Ben used to take their late son to the dinosaur exhibit. Ben refused to return after, but she still went at times, because she enjoyed watching the new generations of children and their gleeful expression. Her son, Jack, really loved dinosaurs. He wanted to be a palaeontologist so every year she donated money to the museum in his name.

Mr. Yuri did not like the museum. But his son did because it made him ‘feel smarter’.

Helen Wilmot loved the museum because it made her feel like a child all over again and to her it was important to maintain that sense of wonder and curiosity. Her husband loved it because it made his family happy, even if he didn’t visit often. Her children loved it because they learned they could be so many things in life: artists, scientists, poets and well…one of them even pointed the role of security guard because it was ‘ _cool_ ’. Why not?

Svetlana, the elderly woman on the third floor of Dana’s apartment block told her she enjoyed the museum because it taught her about the world; it was where she used to spend days at when she first came to the country. She struggled with the language, but the museum had an ‘universal language’, she’d said. Fay particularly liked her comments because they resonated so well with her own views.

Miguel, on the sixth floor mentioned he liked the museum because he used to take his mother there on trips every week. She suffers from late-onset Alzheimer’s, and he used to bring her to the special Friday events organised by the Art Museum, which were aimed at encouraging the exploration of art through multi-sensorial activities. The events cancelled a couple years earlier, but he thought they helped her mother significantly.

All the accounts she’d gathered were in the same vein, and she’d re-written all of them keeping their author anonymous as she had promised, although she had kept their details separate just in case. As far as they were all concerned, she was just researching it for a creative writing entry at the museum (she’d seen a flyer week earlier that mentioned anyone could submit their entries on various topics). There were plenty who’ve answered as having no connection to the museum, who never enjoyed visiting seeing it more of a duty imposed during school days or didn’t have the time to do so, considering the museum to be a leisure activity that was not on their list of priorities.

The essay was over fifteen pages long, even if Fay had rewritten it several times. She did use some passages from books in her world, and even some statements that belonged to people not of that world, but the information was not any less valid. It hadn’t been purposeful, her partial cheating: the words just manifested themselves in her head and they fit the rest of the narrative.

Damian was a faster reader, but it still felt like an eternity sitting in that chair waiting for him to finish, while exchanging occasional glances with her paladin.

When he finally finished, he just looked up at her over the rim of the paper.

“You wrote this entirely?’’

“I…well, yes.’’ It wasn’t as if she could tell him about literary works that did not exist in that world. “But I did—I did use some inspiration. From…my parents.’’

“Hnn.’’ She watched as he arranged the stack of papers before shoving them back inside the plastic folder, she’d kept them in. “I will keep this. I assume you have a digital copy.’’ 

She blinked rapidly. “Y-yes…wait. Why—why are you keeping it?’’ She couldn’t tell if he liked it or not. “The people who gave me those—those notes, I mean…the stories. I promised I’d keep them anonymous.’’

“Clearly since you’ve used single letters instead of full names. Don’t worry, the information will not travel beyond me.’’

And….? “But—but— ‘’ He looked up at her, and she felt the heat rise in her cheeks. She didn’t want to sound needy, but she was curious what he thought, even if he was likely to offer her one of his back-handed compliments. In a way she welcomed the honesty even if it stung. “What…what did you think?’’

“The writing style was— ‘’ She held her breath. “—articulate and coherent, but the work is centred around sentiment not facts and data which is what I find more valuable.’’

Alright, so it wasn’t the worst compliment he could have given her. She could live with that.

“The other candidates have based their answers on statistics, focusing on proving how Gotham could benefit if the museum was successful in its endeavour of educating its citizens, and how attracting visitors and benefactors alike will play a key part in that.’’

So, she was not even on the board when it came to having offered the right answer.

“Do you know why Wilmot got the job even though Richards had already been made an offer as well?’’ 

She shrugged. “…they were both good?’’

“That’s all? That’s all you can come up with?’’ He challenged.

Fay pursued her lips, mulling over the two women. She had no idea the qualifications Rachel had except that she had been the top of her class at Gotham University, and had business management experience. Helen herself was just as qualified, though. She didn’t need to judge their experience and expertise against one another, because it was their personalities that stood out the most. Helen was sociable, warm, and incredibly optimistic with a generally sunny disposition. Rachel was quiet, stern and although she was as cordial and hard-working as the other woman, she had a more no-nonsense attitude. Come to think of Helen thought about the museum in an emotional way as well whereas Rachel always came across as more…clinical about her work, from what Fay had managed to observe. She did not smile as much, nor she was interested in making small talk with others; in that sense she was a lot more like Damian.

“They’re…opposites.’’ She finally said, realizing what he was getting at. “So—they complement one another?’’

Damian’s lips curled upwards. “Exactly. I told you I wanted an alternative perspective to ensure the museum caters to wider types of communities in Gotham. Richards is the brain and Wilmot is---‘’

“---the heart.’’ She finished, nodding. He sneered at that, but didn’t comment on it, glancing at his wristwatch instead. “It’s almost four. I believe Wilmot will be expecting you in the hallway to accompany her to the catering company.’’

“I, um, okay.’’ She eyed the plastic folder in front of him as she pulled herself up to her feet, holding her backpack by one of the straps. “Bye.’’ She muttered, although by then she knew he’d never say it in return.

Right before she exited the room, however, he spoke again.

“You would have passed.’’

She glanced over her shoulder, holding the door open with one hand on the handle. He wasn’t even looking at her, eyes glued to the screen of his laptop. “The challenge. You would have passed it.’’

“I—okay.’’ She exited the room with a pounding heart and sweaty hands.

Helen was waiting for her in front of the elevator, polka-dotted raincoat already on.

The woman started talking as she usually did about her day and her family, but Fay barely heard her as she followed her in the elevator.

_I would have passed it._

Bagheera nudged her forearm with his head and she looked down on him.

The pride she felt was coming from both.

.

.

.

_18 th of September _

It was never entirely clear what she should expect when she arrived at the museum.

On the four days she worked at the soup kitchen, he’d have her go to the museum right after her shift where by now staff members have gotten accustomed to seeing her and her ‘large dog’ waltz around with the same freedom of an employee. As it turns out, Fay Kipling was very _close_ friends with Damian Wayne; met through family connections. Rochester and the other staff members have been instructed to maintain utmost confidentiality in her regard, however.

When Damian was there, she’d spent most of the day in the office. He’d generally start off by interrogating her if she’d eaten because that was as far as his small talk skills went – finally someone worse than her in that department – before he’d ask her to give him an overview on her work with Helen, which generally consisted in helping the woman with random, basic stuff (printing out things, filing documents, being her soundboard for various ideas).

Beyond those twenty-odd minutes, they’d generally discuss various topics he’d almost always initiate. They’d start off by being related to the work at the museum, but they’d always fizzle out in debates and discussions that had little to do with what they were initially talking about. Fay was not sure whether he was testing her knowledge and critical thinking skills – he often made her feel it like that – or whether he truly wanted to talk about those topics. He obviously had been educated in a vast array of topics in many of which his expertise went beyond his years, so it was hard to perceive his interest in talking to her was because he found it stimulating.

Had it been world, she would have said she’s comfortable in her own knowledge of certain topics such as history and art history but in that world, she had barely scratched the surface.

It was difficult containing herself from revealing her thinking about certain matters when….

…. when she _enjoyed_ their discussions. She was learning more than she did by reading or attending the museum because he was challenging her preconceptions and existing knowledge.

There was no end to him surprising her, it seems.

It was frightening how easily she was getting accustomed to that routine they had fallen into although no day was the same.

Damian Wayne was dangerous in more ways than one, she reminded herself.

.

.

.

_19 th of September_

There were days when she terribly missed Titoh, as much as it unfurled conflicting emotions in her heart, including the emotion-that-shan’t-be-named.

It was impossible to think about him without thinking about the old days which now seem like two or three lifetimes.

Five hundred days.

It has only been five hundred days since it all happened. Since she last saw her mother’s smile and heard her voice, since she’s felt her father’s cologne, since she’s spent her days carefree and happy and having never experienced true sorrow. Five hundred days since she had parents and a brother and thought it an impossibility to lose them. She had trouble remembering their scent and voices and sometimes she couldn’t even recall their features correctly. She had spent so much time avoiding memories of them that she was now forgetting them altogether. For the first time in months she wished she had brought more than just the one photo with herself.

If they didn’t succeed on returning home, that photo will be the only evidence that she had had a family once.

As petty as it was, she blamed Damian for missing Titoh, because the way they’d talk at times, just the two of them and Bagheera in the office, reminded her of all those lazy hot days she spent with her brother.

Well, maybe not her brother after all.

That day she ended up vomiting everything she ate, constantly tethering on the edge of a panic attack. It was good thing that Damian didn’t expect her to work over the weekend and that she only had to ask Dana for the day who immediately approved it. They had enough volunteers that day, she said. It did nothing to assuage Fay’s guilt, but she didn’t change her mind.

She was quite certain that if she saw Damian that day, she’d end up breaking down completely.

There just was something about him that reminded her of her parents and her homeland. 

.

.

.

_20 th of September _

She did not have nightmares the previous night, but instead her dreams were filled with an amalgamation of moments from the life _before_. In some ways dreaming of the happier times was worse, because then she’d wake up and realize that they were just that: vivid but temporary reminders that once a upon time she had _everything._ Then reality would remind her that it had all been apart from her, leaving unbearable gaps and irreparable wounds behind.

It was ironic but the good dreams were generally the source of her Bad Days.

Her mind felt like a wound she once had on her left knee that kept reopening for weeks because it kept getting infected. It eventually scarred. Would her mind too? Would it ever come at peace with what happened at some point? That’s what Moma used to say. That it won’t hurt any less but with time she’ll grow stronger in dealing with it.

Fay knew it all started in her mind; the source of most of her issues. It wasn’t as if she did not want to get better, or that she hadn’t tried doing so. There was a part of her that still hoped for that moment when the pain stopped breaking her and instead fuelled her to look towards to the future, when the sorrow stopped clouding her judgement, when the sting of the failure gave her strength to be better than destroy her self-esteem and she stopped allowing the ugly voices dictate her worth.

If her parents would have been alive still, they would have told her to use all the negative feelings to her advantage, to become a better person that does not bend to the darkness the world puts in them but tames it. That was what they did their entire life and as horrific her trauma had been, she knew they suffered even greater. She understood what they were trying to teach her but how? How, how, how, how?

They died before they could teach her all their secrets. Or perhaps they did tell her, and she just couldn’t recall it anymore.

It was hard not to listen to all the cruel voices, the demeaning whispers, and the pitying tones. She had no right to be this weak given she’d grown up in an era hailed as utopian compared to the one the previous generations experienced. Others have suffered greater than her and persisted still in life, found their strength when there was little in their lives to motivate themselves to move forward. Fay had so much more to look forward than her parents and uncles and aunts had, yet they were not enough to fuel her. It was shameful.

Why was she left behind when she could offer nothing? When she couldn’t help anybody because she couldn’t even help herself?

The healers have tried many ways to help her, some approaches more effective than others. Her mental health would always regress eventually, and it was Moma whom told her it might be a good coping mechanism if she kept track of the good and bad days. It could give her a semblance of control because bad days were inevitable, so if too long passed in-between she’d know one such day was overdue. In retrospect, she must have meant it as a temporary solution, not something Fay should obsess over and define her life by.

Keeping track just made things worse, she knew that too. The constant fear of relapse in that debilitating state cast shadows over her, bigger and darker with each day that passed further from her last Bad Day. It was only psychological, yet she could not help but feel that her mind would always punish her for daring to raise her hopes that she was getting better, that she was not as broken as she thought she was.

An inordinate amount of time has passed since her last and that Bad Day, but it wasn’t the first time it happened. In Maysoon, she used to spend days training because the exhaustion and soreness would keep her mind safely away from the thoughts caused her continuous grief. 

Bad Days were about heartache. They were about missing her parents and her brother-not-brother, and all the fractured bonds and the pain inflicted on her and the pain she caused others.

Bad Days were about horrifying flashbacks. Relieving over and over that traumatising night although her memories of it was muddled and it seemed to vary consistently. It was normal, the healers said. It had been a shocking even that many still struggled to process, including her family. Except unlike her, they chose to focus on the aftermath than trying to make sense of it because they were pragmatic like that. They weren’t as emotional as her.

Bad Days were about the loss of her free use of flux, of not being able to soar the skies freely, of mourning the exhilarating emotions she used to experience when training to master the elements. She despised the bracelets as much as she did herself for having made them necessary, as much as she did the people who put them there.

Bad Days were in a way about feeble attempts at trying to overcome it all, because she didn’t fully give in even when her pain in her mind reverberated throughout her body, making her psychically ache as well.

Bad Days were about keeping that emotion at bay because it managed to seep through all the others, like water through gaps between rocks no matter how heavy or numerous.

That day was not easier than the rest.

But she had had more things to grip on so she wouldn’t drown in the abyss.

And the majority were all due to Damian Wayne. 


	11. The beginning of something (II)

_“I am afraid to hope but I can’t help it, and the idea of hoping in this most hopeless of all places makes me want to cry.’’_

\- Beatrice Sparks

_._

_._

_._

_20 th of September (cont’d)_

The dot hasn’t moved since Friday at four in the afternoon. He’d let her leave earlier than usual because she was clearly not in the right frame of mind, so what was the point of having her there if she looked if she could burst crying any moment? The bags under her eyes had looked darker than they had in a while, so she must have been experiencing trouble sleeping again. She admitted to not having had much of an appetite that day, settling for some walnut oatmeal and just an apple and banana for lunch. 

He chose not to berate her for it although he had felt tempted. Eating so little would only make it harder on her to deal with the changes in her moods, especially with the little sleep she was getting. Damian travelled to the soup kitchen when she hit forty-hours of being stationary, justifying his visit as making sure she wasn’t dead, telling himself that he would not interfere beyond that. Fay had a penchant for putting herself in dangerous situations with little regard to her self-preservation and it wasn’t his responsibility if she wanted to neglect herself in such a manner.

He watched Mercher climb down the stairs, an untouched bowl of soup in her hand and a frown on her face. She looked worried, and the cook was waiting for her in the threshold of the kitchen door, looking just as concerned. Crouching down behind the bins, Damian’s sensitive ears picked up on their hushed towns which carried down the alleyway. Fay hadn’t eaten properly in over twenty-four hours and she ended up vomiting that morning’s breakfast; Mercher was getting worried because the girl had hardly gotten out of the attic at all.

“Should we call someone? Maybe that Brit? Isn’t she friends with the kid or something?’’ The cook said.

“She said she doesn’t want to.’’ Mercher pointed out. “I don’t trust them, either, so I would rather not hand her to the lions if I can help her.’’

“They can’t be all that bad if they looked after her and haven’t reported her status.’’

The woman snorted. “I am not convinced her injuries weren’t because of them. Ever since they showed up, Fay’s been getting into a lot of trouble. Remember how upset she was when she thought she couldn’t return to the museum?’’ She paused briefly. “I am going to give it a few more hours and check in on her again. If she doesn’t feel better, I will take her back to my place and ask Dennis to have a look.’’

With that they went inside, letting the kitchen door close noisily behind them.

Damian made a mental note to check Mercher’s connections and find out who this Dennis was, as he swiftly climbed up the staircase and then opened the window to the third floor to step inside the dimly lit dance studio. The hatch was closed, and when he’d paused, listening to the sounds above him he’d heard heavy footsteps, as well as smaller, quicker ones. Bagheera and the smaller dog then. He could have used the windows facing the alley to enter as he did before but that beast of her was likely going to attack him, and he’d rather not have to explain why climbing through there had felt more natural.

With that, he pulled the hatch open, lowering the foldable stairs. The large dog’s head popped in the view almost immediately, jaws pulling back in a soundless snarl. The smaller dog appeared a second later, yipping happily upon seeing Damian.

The boy climbed up and Bagheera huffed at him, unhappy with his presence in what he must’ve deemed his territory and stayed planted where he was, blocking Damian’s free path to the bundle on top of the inflatable mattress to his left. Fay had completely covered herself with the thick blanket, only strands of brown hair sticking out on the pillow underneath her head. Her breathing was steady so she must have been fast asleep.

The grey short-hair cat was more welcoming than the rest of the strays, immediately rushing to him from the bin bag tucked in a corner in the other side of the attic, to brush itself against his legs, purring loudly. Damian spotted the ferret sneaking through the piles of books pushed against the inclined walls.

Fay whimpered, and shifted under the blanket, turning around in her sleep. Bagheera turned away from Damian, to look at her, ears perking up as he whined softly, stepping closer to her. Damian stopped next to him by the makeshift bed, crouching down silently as to not startle her. The sheet that had served as a fort, hanging from the beams above, had fallen off bundling between the wall and her small form.

She protested when he grabbed the blanket and tugged on it gently, holding it back over herself. He allowed her to keep herself hidden. “Nggg…no. Bag, leave me alone.’’

“I am not Bagheera.’’

She tensed up, pulse increasing rapidly _Thud! Thud! Thud!_ In his ears. She wasn’t just surprised but afraid as well. Was that why she told Mercher to not contact Alfred? Why she didn’t even bother to message him? He would have responded in her favour, had she done that. Why was she such an idiot?

“Fay.’’ He called out firmly, if not a bit irritated. “Stop acting immaturely.’’

She didn’t respond.

Sigh.

He tried again, from a different angle. “You have no reason to hide from me. I am not here to impart judgement.’’ There was a part of him that did judge her for her emotional display, for her weakness, but he forcefully pushed it away because that was the same part that sided with Mother’s teachings instead of Father’s. Fay had started opening more in the last weeks, had become more responsive. Her stutter would often vanish when she’d get caught midst discussion, the fear would take second place to her curiosity. But she still didn’t trust him. Bagheera whined softly again, louder this time, communicating in his own way with the girl. but her trust was fragile, and in that they were alike so as impatient as he felt, he had to practice caution.

“Why-why are you here then?’’ She asked pitifully, voice hoarse. She must’ve been crying extensively to strain her vocal cords in such a manner.

_Because I want to know._

“I was bored, and I was in the area.’’

“Go away.’’ Hm. Look at that. She could be feisty when she was hiding behind a blanket.

“No.’’ He said simply. “You can go ahead and keep crying if you want, don’t let me interrupt you.’’

“ _Please_.’’

He was not nearly as satisfied as he thought he would be hearing her beg him like that. She sounded… _tortured_. Leaning with his elbows on the edge of the inflatable mattress, he propped his cheek on one of his hands. “Why? Are you ashamed?’’ He knew she was. The girl practically oozed guilt and shame. That uncle of hers had done number on her, hadn’t he?

She didn’t answer, but her silence spoke volumes. She sniffed again, louder and he heard her breath hitch.

She was crying again.

“Don’t be.’’ He would have never wallowed in his self-pity like that, spending days crying. But… “It’s…fine to mourn them.’’

“What?’’ A sob escaped her, like something brittle snapping.

“It’s about your parents, isn’t it? All of it. The panic attacks, the crying, the guilt.’’ The small dog jumped on top of the mattress, snuggling himself against the girl’s back. The cat slid between Damian and Bagheera, leaning against his hand when he reached to scratch her ears. “The pain won’t go away if you do, however, so I think it’s a waste of energy.’’

She froze again, and he could tell she was holding her breath, but he couldn’t see her expression, so he wasn’t sure what was going through her mind.

“It’s up to you how to let the pain influence your life, if you want to let it dominate you.’’ Damian tutted. “There’s better ways to channel it than crying about it though.’’

“I-I k-know.’’

He raised an eyebrow although she couldn’t see him. “Is that so?’’ He scoffed. “What do you know then?’’

She was silent for twenty seconds – he’d counted- before she responded again. “P-pain…can fuel a person to be better. To---to make them stronger. I, um—my father had a saying about it.’’ She wouldn’t have mentioned it if she didn’t want to say it. She could be as deliberate in what she revealed about herself, very guarded. She was transparent emotionally, but he could tell that she knew things that she refused to speak about, secrets that she kept for herself with whatever will she had. He was a selfish being, so he wanted to know all about them. He’d not force her though. “That…painless lessons are useless, be-because people who sacrifice and—and overcome their pain…have a heart of fire and steel. They…they are—are strongest people.’’

“He sounds like a wise man.’’ He agreed. “So, why are you not following his advice?’’

“I…I tried.’’ She whispered, voice lowering again. “I, um…. I couldn’t.’’

“Would have your father given up?’’

“…no.’’ Had it been anyone else they wouldn’t have picked up on that small sound she made. It was barely a word.

“Then why are you?’’

“I—I told you…’’ He sighed loudly, lowering his hand away from his face so he could tug the blanket away from her head, just about done with the ridiculous way they were conversing.

Red-rimmed brown eyes stared at him widely, face blotched red and cheeks wet. Her hair was a disarray and the knitted wool jumper she was wearing was far too big on her, the sleeves falling past her hands as she kept them bent up towards her face, fidgeting and hiding part of her mouth. She had been biting her lips extensively judging by how red and chapped they were. A few fat drops of tears slid down her cheeks when she closed her eyes and reached to cover her face from him. 

“Excellent hiding techniques.’’ His voice dripped sarcasm. “I can’t see you at all.’’

Bagheera leaned forward and nudged her head, before huffing in her ear, making her squeak and reach to bat him away, clearly ticklish. “St-stop, Bag.’’ She whined softly when he grabbed onto a few strands and tugged on them, opening her eyes in the process.

Smart dog.

She looked even smaller than usual. Two days without food spent crying and with minimal exercise would have done most of the progress she made in the ten days. He had already suspected her weight loss and lack of appetite must be related to her emotional state, but now it was clearer how deep the impact was. He flicked her forehead hard, and she reached to touch the spot with a look of indignation and surprise. “O-ow.’’

“Answer my question. Why are you giving up?’’

“I…I already did.’’

She tried to tug the blanket up, but he held it firmly away, down to her shoulders.

“No, you didn’t.’’ He leaned forward and she pulled away, like a turtle trying to pull back into its shell. “You only said you tried, and you failed. So what? You’re still alive so why are you wasting your chances to improve?’’

“I—I didn’t— ‘’ She pouted. “Let-let go. Let go---.’’

“No.’’

“You’re…you’re really mean.’’

“I don’t care.’’ He scoffed. “Tell me.’’

She stared him with that guarded look she’d often get even discussing innocuous stuff which meant she was being cautious about revealing her thoughts again.

“I—I am—I am not giving up. I just---I just tried. More…more than once. I just…I just am not---‘’ she swallowed, eyes becoming wet again. “…strong enough.’’

“So?’’

Brown eyes – there were gold flecks in them – stared at him bewildered. “W-w-what?’’

“So, you’ve failed repeatedly. You’re weak. Keep trying then, until you get it right.’’ If he had ever been anything than exceptional, he’d work twice as hard to make up for it. He has failed to defeat Mother several times throughout his childhood but giving up was never an option. Getting up and doing it all over again – faster, stronger, better – each time was the only path.

Because the alternative was death. And not a quick, swift one.

You were either strong or dead in the League. There is no in-between, because the enemy will not give you second chances, they will not allow you to gather your bearings and ‘try again’. You either won or died trying, crushed at the hands of the enemy. Of course, he’d generally been the one bestowing death on others, not the other way around. The expectations were even higher for someone his calibre so meeting the bar wasn’t sufficient; exceeding it was mandatory or otherwise he’d face the punishments. He'd learned quickly that they were designed to make death seem easier.

“What’s the point of being alive if you’re just going survive to live another day in the past?’’

“I…. don’t know.’’

So, she’d pondered it, then. Her own death.

Honour suicides were not uncommon amongst the assassins but Ra’s al Ghul rarely ever gave them the opportunity to escape their shame so easily. Damian recalled travelling to Japan and learning about the seppuku rituals, of how samurais preferred taking their life than being held prisoner. Choosing death in fear of torture was not an option, his Mother said because he was meant to rule the world, and that meant both his mental and psychical limits will be pushed far beyond what regular people would be able to deal with. And Damian Wayne was _not_ regular. 

“Do you want to be?’’ He asked. “Alive.’’

She reached to rub her eyes. The bags under her eyes made her look infinitely older, like an old soul stuck in a twelve-year old’s body.

“I, um…’’ she hesitated, gnawing on her lip. “I…I don’t want to…die. They…they, um, would not want that either.’’ 

Face pinching in pain she reached to her temple, and she took a deep breath, but seemed to struggle to do so. Her breathing became ragged, and she tugged uncomfortably at the jumper, revealing a long-sleeved shirt underneath. Of course.

“Are you feeling claustrophobic?’’

She nodded.

Damian glanced outside the circular window up on the wall behind her, where he could hear the pitter patter of water drops growing in intensity. It had started raining again.

Cold water.

Hm.

“How about a shower, hmm?’’

.

By the time they had climbed on the roof, walking around the inclined walls of the attic to flat ground, the rain was so thick it felt like fabric, something Fay could thread her fingers through, that fell on her almost punishingly. Her clothes drenched within seconds, the water and cold seeping through to her skin so strongly that it felt as if she was standing in the flow of a river falling from limestone-grey sky above her head.

The rain was cleansing, crushing down the thrum of anxiety, and releasing the invisible chains that have been intermittently tightening themselves around her ribcage. The claw made of grief and sorrow squeezing her heart loosened, dark thoughts losing their grip on power as her mind recalibrated to the sensations assailing her.

Fay is not sure when the bracelets became a cage but that’s what they were. They had been put on her wrists as invisible sentries ready to stop the flux if it grew out of control, only to activate when she failed to balance her mind to her body. For weeks after _that_ day, she had been wary of using her abilities, had accepted the presence of the bracelets because she was willing to do anything to prevent further incidents from happening.

Her uncle had told her that she could remove them using a particular ritual if the situation called for it. They were a temporary solution, after all.

It didn’t work. She arrived in that world, disoriented, and lost, frightened both because of how different it was from what the files said and because she could not find Bagheera. She could not recall still the day before they arrived in that world and at the time she had been wrecked by the idea that she’d have to be there alone and with no way of returning home because even her bag was missing. She had nothing. No money, no clothes, no identity. She had wanted to run away and shed the burdens of who she was in Maysoon, and she had suffered the price for it. She stopped being Fay of Maysoon but her grief and guilt and shame had travelled with her, etched into her being no matter where she went.

The first days were a blur, but she had ascertained quickly that she had not arrived at the location she had been expecting, rather thousands of miles away.

Between scavenging for food and shelter, her thoughts were rooted in the despondency she experienced. What if Bagheera died? What if the body of her beautiful, brilliant paladin was laying somewhere in that strange, foreign world rotting away? All alone. Because of her. What if Bagheera was across the world, just as lost as she was and it’d be weeks, months, years before they’d meet again? She would have rather been stuck alone in that world forever than any of those scenarios being true. She set to finding him, because no matter how it took, no matter how far she had to go, she had to survive just in case Bagheera had indeed arrived in that world as well. Fay owed it to her paladin to find him.

They did find each other ultimately, but it wasn’t before they both learned just how much darkness that world carried as well. It may have looked differently, but it was no less dangerous or treacherous as theirs. That’s when she discovered that the ritual had no effect on her bracelets, which stopped being a failsafe designed to be reactive and cause her minimal discomfort and started behaving like a prison, with no guards or walls, just the scorching runes to remind her of the failures.

She became deaf to the world, just not in the traditional sense. The thrums of energies she’d accustomed to feeling ever since she was a young child had gradually dulled out until she was cut off from it entirely. Summoning her flux, trying to tap into the natural energies that she knew existed even if she could no longer feel them was suddenly impossible. They used to say it was broken, the link between mind, body, and soul so she recalls thinking that the ordeal of coming to that world had been the final straw. Except the flux was still there, not entirely severed, just…out of her reach. The only time it’d resurface was when her emotional state would fluctuate so wildly that it inevitably stimulated it in awakening, but the flux now felt like an entity separate to her own even if it lived in her. Fay could no longer grip it, could no longer channel it at will.

Sometimes she’d feel things, faint echoes of what she used to experience. When nature decided to make its power known, she’d try to bask into it, because she’d feel the buzz of electricity and the pressure changes even before the skies darkened. Ever since arriving in Gotham, rain had been light and sporadic, and it was not nearly enough to her starved body and soul.

But that day, there was a storm brewing and it felt… _exhilarating_.

Fay had been so enraptured by the pains of the Bad Day that she hadn’t paid attention, even if the flux hungered to connect with the natural energies of the world, to break free from the unforgiving chains that her bracelets had morphed into. The winds intensified, turning into howls that bounced off steel and brick and glass giants and Gotham was quieted down by the thick sheet of water that befell on it. She felt the ripples of energy, as faintly as she did, prickling her marks and filling her with a second-hand sense of power, but power all the same as explosions of thunders resonated in the distance like the sounds of demented creatures.

Flashing bolts of lightning appeared miles out to her left and she shuddered. Electricity had never been her element, wilder and more unforgiving even than fire which she’d also struggled with. In the past, because she had none of it and _after_ , because there was too much of it. Approaching the edge of the roof, ignoring the water squelching beneath her feet – her canvas shoes were old and damaged, she might have as well gone barefoot – and watched with satisfaction as people rushed away to seek shelter to their cars, in shops, back in their homes.

Even in an untamed urban setting like Gotham, nature could still impose itself disruptively onto its citizens.

It was now power for her to yield, and even if she was not a prisoner to the bracelets, she’d not be able to wield all that energy, just borrow off it. Even then, she’d risk being consumed by it.

The world felt alive.

She felt alive.

So, she closed her eyes, and tilted her head to the sky, feeling almost as if she could become one with the rain. 

It was temporary but it was like balm for her soul.

.

It worked.

Her features and body relaxed underneath the thick sheet of rain, unbothered by the drenched clothes.

Her breathing eased, and her eyes closed.

She was smiling.

It was the first time he’d seen her smile like that. She had not certainly never smiled like that before (because of him); not in that unrestrained manner, untainted by her anxiety or fears.

He was getting drenched too, clothes sticking, weighing down with water. Damian didn’t pay any attention to them, feeling uncannily light.

It started in his chest and spread to his limbs.

(He wanted to know what made her look so happy yet so sad about.)

.

“ _Achoo!_ ’’

“Come closer. I don’t think you’ve quite covered me all in your germs.’’

“S-sorry.’’

_Drip! Drip! Drip!_

The only sound permeating the sudden silence that befell the attic stemmed from the water dripping from their clothes which they both hung over the beams, leaving the electric heater to run almost at full power underneath them. Damian had ordered her to get changed before they ended up looking awkwardly at each other when they’d realized that would have required him being there when it happened seeing as he was in _her_ space. In the end, she gave him the hoodie and joggers she’d never gotten around to return - although she had made sure they were washed and folded carefully- in which he changed using the bathroom on the third floor.

She changed out of her clothes as fast as she could.

Which wasn’t very fast seeing as she was trembling, and she felt dizzy. Being in the rain had helped significantly in clearing her head and pushing away the claustrophobia, but it had also made space for a renewed sense of hunger, that gnawed at her stomach and made her head throb. Dana had given her a hooded, fleece sweatshirt from her own wardrobe which fell almost to her knees. It was one of her favourite items, not only because it was a gift from Dana but also because how soft and comfortable it felt, allowing her to hide in it as she would in a blanket. She combined it with thick tights and fuzzy socks that she had bought recently.

Damian didn’t return immediately to the attic, and she had wondered whether he decided to just leave after changing, except twenty minutes later he announced he was coming back up while she was busy towelling off the excess water from Bagheera’s fur. The boy appeared through the hatch with…food. A _lot_ of food. It looked like he had ordered for several people, and as it turns out not, he only he had a frightening appetite, but he also thought about her paladin and the other stray’s needs.

Fay just stared at him bewildered, even when he criticised how unhealthy her stash of sweets and snacks was, because…something had shifted in her perception of him.

She wasn’t sure what, so that’s why she stared at him, taking in the dark hair, the warmer tones of his skin and the way he always moved purposefully, like well, a soldier. There was something graceful in his movements too, and he reminded of clan heirs that’d been trained from birth to master elegance as much as they did deadly weapons. It made sense though, now that she knew he was Robin.

There were parallels to be drawn between them, but she knew comparing herself to him would only bring the insidious thoughts back, so she refrained from doing so. Instead she just gawked at him, marvelling at how the boy before her – genius, heir, _warrior of that world_ – stood in her attic – _on her territory –_ so close to the items that could destroy the fragile wall she kept between them so he wouldn’t discover who - _what_ – she was, looking as if he belonged.

Damian had no sense of propriety, or perhaps he did not care just as he didn’t about small talk or being nice or polite, as he dumped the food on the ground between them, while she sat propped against the mattress with Bagheera next to her, who watched him just as intently.

He trespassed again. Not to offer pleasantries or words of encouragement, or to comfort her, yet his words had struck deeper than any gestures of concern. Damian had made it sound so easy, not giving up, just like her parents did so she admired his determination. He struck her as the type of person for whom giving up was not an option. _I wish I was like that._ The way he saw moving forward as the only option, the fire that his character held that she was never able to summon.

As blunt as he had been, he had not made her feel the way her uncle did when he’d try to exercise tough love – _because for years it was the only type of love he’d known himself_ –, or when Moma would try to console her by telling her that she’ll get through it because she was her parents’ daughter or when the elders looked down upon her even she did get up, never enough for them. 

Damian’s message was clear. You’re alive, so only option is forward. Just like that. She’d heard variations of it, had been on the end of far more inspiring speeches than that but his words…. made her feel funny inside. She wanted to know how he could just believe that so easily. Had he experienced pain and sorrow too and he had used them to his advantage like her parents did? How did he do that?

_I want to know._

He was her age. A child beneath the scars she’d caught glimpse once or twice under his sleeves or beneath his collar.

So, what did he do differently? Had he always been like this?

_I want to know more._

He was arrogant and harsh, and at times he seemed to have no qualms about his behaviour or how his words affected others – including her – but…he was also kind. And generous.

_What’s the secret?_

It just wasn’t obvious in the way Dana or Helen were. His kindness was wrapped up in the anger and steel that he seemed to be made of, and he wasn’t the only person she’d met that was like that so Fay wondered why it took her so long to accept it. She knew the answer to that, of course and she didn’t think she could be faulted entirely, as much as she was inclined at times to crucify herself for most things that had gone wrong in the past year and a half (six hundred and two days, to be exact). 

Fay felt an unwanted rush of guilt as she kept staring at him.

She didn’t trust him, and he was still dangerous to her in many ways even if he didn’t intend to harm her but she had been unforgiving, slotting him in the same space as the people who’d been cruel with her. Fay knew what it was like to be judged based on appearances, to have people decide they’ve already understood who she was and not be interested in changing their minds. That’s what she had done with Damian as well – even when she’d admitted to herself that he wasn’t just this tyrannical, invasive entity in her life, she had always gone back to her original conclusions about him: that he was just a rich, powerful boy who wanted to play with her life and emotions.

Maybe he was. People can play long, intricate games if they truly wish to inflict pain onto others. She’d experienced that herself, hadn’t she? (There was a part of herself that still thought she had deserved it all).

It had been easier to assume that of Damian as well. It had been… _safer_. If she started giving in that same stupid sense of hope that she had followed last time when she’d thought others could accept her for who she was, that they’d be patient and loyal as she was with them, then she’d surely end up getting hurt all over again. People simply didn’t want to be around her, not when she was this broken. Dana and Mack and Robby were barely an exception, they hardly know her. Really know her, that is.

Even her brother had walked away in the end. Did she even have a sibling anymore? No, not really. Fay of Maysoon was just as alone as Fay Kipling, and the only creature she could count on is Bagheera.

But Damian was so persistent, almost suffocating in the way he emphasized his presence in her life, so corruptive that she’d now grown accustomed to him. He made no promises of friendships or long-lasting bonds, and it was only a matter of time, though before he’d walk away. Because he will. Everyone did eventually. They either got bored or scared or died.

He could still be doing it all to gain her trust, to make her lower her guard – and he was succeeding. 

But she wanted to believe again. She wanted to believe he was a good person, and that he was still there with her not just because he was monitoring her. It was that kind of hope that was going to get hurt her again.

Oh, how little it took another to get her weak heart to be reckless and greedy again.

“Are you just going to stare at me or are you going to eat your food which I went through the trouble of providing you?’’ His voice washed over her thoughts, and heat pooled in her cheeks when she’d realised, she was spacing out, looking at him at the entire time. 

“S-sorry!’’ She squeaked, and quickly lowered her head, looking at the array of food containers he’d laid out. “Thank you. For—for the food.’’ _And everything else._

Grabbing one of the bags that he’d pushed towards her she found grilled chicken and salad wrapped in a warm, flat bread. They ate in silence, as the weather outside worsened making her fear the windows to the attic might just break from the force of the water drops and winds. The cat naturally preferred to stay close to Damian, while the dog watched her with tongue lolling out of his mind in hopes she might give him additional pieces of food. In the end, as much as Damian loved criticising her sweet tooth, he ate his way through a _large_ bag of M&M’s which he shamelessly stole out of her stash, while brazenly inspecting her collection of books and trinkets.

She’d lie if she said she hadn’t been hoping he’d initiate another one of their conversations.

He did.

.

“Steinbeck wrote the novel in a way that could have been easily— ‘’ Damian stopped, and glanced over his shoulder from his place where he was perusing one of her stacks of books further down the attic. He’d spotted Schopenhauer amongst fiction and travel guides, which was rather an interesting finding. Her tastes were…eclectic, he’ll give her that, although he’d question the validity of some of her choices like some of the more mainstream titles he’d recognized. She was mature for her age, but she did not

Fay was asleep.

Glancing at his watch, he saw that it was early afternoon, which meant they’ve been talking for almost two hours. Throughout their conversation, Fay had moved back onto the mattress and now she had fallen asleep, curled up in the oversized hoodie, hair still slightly damp. The small dog had tucked himself against her stomach and Bagheera was laying down on the ground by the makeshift bed, serving as usual as a barrier between the girl and anyone who wished to disturb her. The ferret had gone back to playing with his toy while the cat had stayed close to his legs.

Hm.

There was a part of him that was tempted to wake her up so he could chastise her for rudely falling asleep while he was talking.

Instead, he grabbed the blanket that had piled up in a corner and threw it over her, while Bag jumped up on the mattress to curl himself around her, taking up the entire space and engulfing her with his long limbs. The beast growled softly at him, a weak warning, more of a begrudging thank you. Damian put on his shoes which were still slightly wet before opening the hatch and letting the stairs unfold towards the floor. He glanced at her when she mumbled something under her breath, features more relaxed than earlier that day as she rolled away from him to press herself harder into her furry companion.

“Hnn.’’ He didn’t need to step down the stairs, could have easily made the jump but he did it for the benefit of the blond woman waiting in the dance studio. He’d heard her climb the staircase while he was tying his shoes. “Mrs. Mercher.’’ He greeted dryly, unfazed by the mix of alarm and suspicion that lit her eyes or the way she crossed her arms, attempting and failing terribly at making him feel intimidated.

“She’s asleep now.’’ He remarked, feeling a sliver of pride because he’d succeeded where the woman clearly failed.

“Fay had mentioned she did not want to contact you.’’ The woman remarked casually. 

He knew exactly what she was insinuating, but he was not going to make it easy on her. “She’s changed her mind, clearly.’’ He replied just as casually, shoving his hands inside the pockets of his joggers, before turning to walk away, heading towards the window leading to the fire staircase, in no mood to chit-chat with Mercher or having to explain his presence there.

“I don’t know what your intentions are— ‘’ Damian resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Of course, she had to have final word. “---but Fay is not a charity case.’’

Hypocrite. “Oh?’’ He turned to look at her, stopping by the windowsill. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.’’ Dana scoffed. “Come on, kid, don’t insult my intelligence. I don’t know what your intentions are here but be careful.’’ She warned.

Feeling amused by the woman’s threat, Damian lifted a brow. “ _Or what_?’’ It was laughable the woman thought she could anything against him or that she had any right to control who Fay talked to.

“Or she’ll get hurt.’’ Dana responded firmly, stepping closer to him. “Fay is a clever, kind girl but she’s also sensitive. If you are going to pretend to be her friend just because—I don’t know – you’re bored, then don’t. She’s been through enough as it is.’’

 _You know nothing about her._ He thought viciously. He didn’t either, not entirely – _not yet_ \- but he certainly knew more than Mercher. “Not that it’s any of your business who Fay talks to— ‘’ He started coldly. “—but that will not happen.’’ _Not on my watch_. “From the looks of it, she’s doing just fine on her own.’’ She was emotionally weak, but there was….strength under all that.

Dana did what must’ve been her best impression of a scrutinising look, but he held her gaze unflinchingly, if not rather smugly.

“Have a nice day, Mrs. Mercher.’’ He said calmly. “Oh, and I wouldn’t worry about food.’’ He glanced at the bag in her hand, smirking. “She already ate.’’

With that he turned and exited out the window and down onto the staircase.

.

“Hey, little D. Where’ve you been?’’ Dick turned in his chair, away from the Batcomputer to look at the boy as he came down the stairs, hands in pocket.

“Out.’’ Damian replied curtly, green eyes moving over at the images taking centre stage on the main screen.

George Sanders. Twenty-two years old. Missing since 17th of May, around the same time the Aceline auction house he worked for launched an internal investigation about a missing painting. News of the theft were leaked to a journalist, leading the media to automatically brand Sanders as culpable, which wasn’t difficult, taking advantage of his record as a juvenile offender to push that image out to the public. Damian knew all that without having to read the files on the screen because he’s already investigated Sanders. He wanted to know if there was a connection between him and his former probation officer, Hannah Walker.

They’d not been able to gather data on what has caused Finnegan’s mutation back at the building. The golf-ball sized bomb he was carrying in his trousers was not innovative per se in terms of size and destructiveness, but it was the way that looked that piqued Damian’s interest. There were carvings in the dark metal, and it looked as if it had been filled with a dark blue liquid. He kept a sketch of it, which he had used to try and find similar weapons recorded in the database, but no match so far.

Game-changing weapons, hmm?

Digging deeper he’d found that Sanders had known both Finnegan and Wyatt, who were several years older than him. They’d previously dragged him into trouble when he was only fourteen, culminating in him being sent to a juvenile detention centre. It was Walker who’d turned his life around, from the looks of it, because under her mentorship the teen had gone to University and he’d been able to gain an internship at the Aceline’s, a relatively elitist place to be in.

Aceline conducted a mix of live and online auctions, specialising in art and sculpture primarily. The auction house’s success had gradually declined over the years since its foundation in the 80’s, only experiencing a momentary rise in fame two years earlier when Henry Johanssen, a prolific European collector bought an entire collection of items most of which he later had donated to various museums across the country, including Gotham’s Art and Antiquities.

“Anything new on Sanders?’’ Damian asked.

Dick gave him a look that said he wasn’t going to like what he was going to say next.

“Just spit it out, Grayson.’’

Said man sighed, and with one hand reached for the digital keyboard, swiftly pressing a few holographic keys, bringing up a new image. An average-looking woman, short dark hair, brown eyes. On the heavier side, mid to late forties. 

Caithlin Clarkson. Head of a boy’s group home where Finnegan and Wyatt had stayed as minors and have also befriended one another. What’s more is that Finnegan had been involved with Clarkson’s daughter, Josie for years since they were teenagers, until the girl almost died of an overdose. She went to rehab, got better. Finnegan didn’t so the two lost touch but a few weeks prior to Walker’s death, it seems he has tried finding her, resulting in her mother to request a restrictive order.

It wasn’t much of a lead, but it was better than nothing, according to Grayson. No new blackouts have been reported in what was rapidly becoming the longest pause, and Damian suspected it was because what came next will no longer be just a test, but something bigger. The duration of previous blackouts had gradually increased, with the first lasting between fifteen and twenty minutes to over half an hour for the last two, in addition to the range of affected zones.

“What are we waiting for? I will go get changed and we can check her apartment— ‘’

“There’s---no need actually.’’ Dick said, pausing briefly before speaking again. “Tim already checked.’’

“Drake checked.’’ Damian’s voice was deceptively calm, even as his veins filled with vitriol and the anger bubbled up so quickly in his chest that he felt his body temperature raise to a feverish state. “Why is Drake investigating? _My_ case.’’ To his credit, Grayson didn’t flinch at the murderous look on the boy’s face and instead raised his hands up, in a placating manner.

“Still your case, Damian but we all work together so if there’s a chance we can find out sooner— ‘’ _Because you’re not doing a good enough job. Because you’re not faster,_ is what Damian heard. “—then we should take it. Look---Drake tracked down Clarkson and found out that Finnegan had searched for Josie because he was scared. It is unclear of what, but it appears Wyatt dragged him into some business that he wanted out of but was afraid he’ll get killed if he does.’’

Damian’s hands were balled so tight that he could feel his fingernails leave crescent-shaped moons in his skin. “And?’’ He said through gritted teeth. Drake found Clarkson. He found a potential lead that Damian _didn’t_.

Dick kept a neutral look. “Well Josie mentioned that Finnegan seemed reluctant to be dealing with Wyatt and their new employer, who had recruited them at the beginning of year. It’s unclear how Wyatt came across this employer, but Finnegan had told her that what the people they were dealing were incredibly dangerous and…not entirely human. Josie thought it may have been the drugs talking, but it does confirm your theory that there’s something larger at play here than just blackouts and a robbery turned murder.’’

Hearing his theory confirmed did little to assuage the burn he felt. “I already I knew I was right. Anything else?’’

“No.’’ The former Robin stood up and walked over to Damian, with that insufferable patient look of his. “You are on to something, okay, D? You were right about the blackouts.’’

Damian sneered, not in the mood for Grayson or his attempts at appeasing him. It did not change that he had allowed Drake to get involved in something he had been raising for weeks now.

“- _Tt_ -. Tell Drake to stay out of his or I will give him a reason to do so.’’ He turned around, to walk in the direction of the training room, ignoring Alfred as he appeared with a silver tray with cucumber sandwiches.

“I see Miss Fay has returned you the clothes you’ve lent her.’’

Damian didn’t deign him with a response as he stormed away, leaving the two men to watch his retreating back in silence.

“What was that about his clothes?’’ Dick’s brows went up, as he grabbed one of the sandwiches.

“Oh. I don’t have the full details, but cold showers and Dickens seem to have had something to do with it.’’

“…. _wut_?’’

“Master Richard, it’s unbecoming to speak with your mouth full.’’ 

.

.

.

_22 nd of September_

Damian was in a foul mood when she arrived at the museum, and it seemed she wasn’t the only one who noticed. Staff members gave him wide berth when he came walking down the hall and pulled her into the office barely giving her the chance to exit the elevator properly.

“You’re late.’’

She was. By _two_ minutes. Between the consistent rain and the colder temperatures, the soup kitchen had started getting busier, so she’d been on her feet the entire day helping Mack in the kitchen. Since they opened, the canteen had been consistently packed with people searching for respite from the autumn weather. Beds were set up on the second floor, with the office employees making space to accommodate the throng of people that came through. Some lived in their cars, others were in-between homes and several women were there because the victims’ support charity, two streets down from the soup kitchen, was temporarily unavailable.

Fay had considered asking Damian if she could stay behind and help but Dana insisted that she should take some time for herself given how unwell she’d been not only two days earlier. Now that she saw the mood he was in, it was a good idea she didn’t, although he had no right to force her to do anything she didn’t want to.

A few weeks earlier she would have already walked out of there, but in that moment she just felt apprehensive. Damian was not angry with her, she hadn’t done anything wrong but…something was off.

She couldn’t help herself.

“I am sorry.’’

“What are you apologising for?’’ He snapped, not looking from his laptop as he typed away at it so furiously, she feared the keys might fly off.

Fay wasn’t sure if the words that came out of her mouth were because she felt indebted for making her feel better when she was recovering from her Bad Day, or because she would rather not be on the receiving end of his fury. Maybe both. She approached him with as much caution and discretion as she did the more temperamental beasts that lived in the jungle, tempted to incline her head in a bow and let him become accustomed to her scent.

“That…you’re upset. I am sorry that you’re upset.’’ That got his attention, and his eyes left the screen to fix her with the same intensity of a predator trying to determine whether she was a threat or not. “Is---is there anything I can do?’’ She asked meekly, wanting to help and to escape that office simultaneously.

“Is that so?’’ He drawled, mockingly. She hated when he used that tone, and suddenly regretted saying anything at all. “I need something picked up.’’

Hm. Weird.

“…okay.’

“It’s twenty miles out. In Burnside.’’ He knew she couldn’t take public transportation and taxis were generally not an option due to Bagheera’s size. He knew she’d end up walking those twenty miles, or at least a great portion of them.

She stared at him, wondering if he’s serious. He was.

“Okay.’’ She repeated. Fay had a feeling he was punishing her even if she wasn’t the source of his frustrations but curse her weak heart, she would walk the twenty miles if needed and it wasn’t just because she did not want to be on his bad side. She generally felt compelled to help others if she saw them upset because well…treat others as you wish to be treated right? She rarely ever got what she put in for others, but she’d learned a while ago that relying on others to be empathetic and reliable would only bring disappointment. As far as it came to her anyway.

But he did. He had remembered the cold shower helped her, he pulled her on that roof even if she protested and he stayed in the rain, waiting for her for what must’ve been almost twenty minutes. He bought food – purposefully light dishes for her, too – and he had initiated conversations about books because he had learned by that point that it was what made her relax.

_Stop. Don’t go there. He’s just doing it to gain my trust._

Yet there she was offering to do anything to make him feel better.

_I am an idiot._

“Alright. I will text you the address.’’ She nodded, before turning around to head towards the door, paladin in tow.

She didn’t even hear him move – _he was fast!_ – as he came around the desk and grabbed her by the backpack, stopping her dead in tracks.

“You’re an idiot. There’s a storm outside and you’re dressed inappropriately for the weather.’’

She turned around to look at him with a look of puzzlement. “But you said---‘’

The anger had melted away from his face, and his green eyes no longer looked as hard as they did before. There was something guarded about his expression. “You didn’t ask if you could take the private car?’’ He’d always make her take it whenever they’d finish later at the museum. 

“I, um…well, no.’’ She didn’t like being in the car, truth be told. The compressed space made her feel anxious, as luxurious as the one his were. “I prefer…walking.’’ 

“You were going to walk twenty miles.’’ He repeated with an unreadable tone.

“…I guess.’’ Maybe not all the way through, if the bus going over the bridge was empty. Unlikely. With the weather outside, everyone would be relying on any transportation but walking. Fay wasn’t that bothered by the weather and Bagheera hardly found it a challenge.

“Being a people pleaser will not get you far in life.’’

He sounded exactly like the others and that must’ve been one of the most hurtful things he said to her yet.

“I know when people are using me.’’ She said suddenly, an invisible dagger pushing deeper into her already wounded heart.

Damian turned to the side, staring at her slightly surprised.

“I always do.’’ Fay continued. “I---I don’t want to treat people the way they treat me.’’

“Because you’re self-righte— ‘’

Fay beat to him, riding the small rush of adrenaline she felt at standing her ground even as she allowed herself to be vulnerable about her own pain. “Because I don’t want others to feel…that way.’’ _Because it hurts so much_. “And I—I don’t think walking twenty miles…would help you. But…. if it’s the only thing I can do.’’ She added quietly.

It's exactly that weakness on her part that got her hurt in the past. Her mother would have called it kindness, but she’d never have allowed herself to be pushed around and humiliated the way Fay did. But Damian had been kind to her, in that subtle and roundabout way of his, so for the time being she would only see his kindness for what it was. Her heart already decided that even if her mind wasn’t entirely convinced.

“Why would you be kind to those who weren’t kind to you?’’ He asked quietly.

“I think it’s…. because I don’t like the way—the way it makes me feel.’’ _I can’t give in. I am not allowed to._ “That’s…. that’s not how they would have wanted me to act.’’ Bagheera pushed his head under one of her hands, and she threaded her fingers through his fur, feeling his affection projecting off him into her. It was his way of reminding her that he was there for her.

Damian looked away from her, towards the windows being battered by the raindrops and she waited silently because she couldn’t tell what was going in his mind. She wished she had Bag’s empath abilities in that moment so she could tell what other emotions he felt. Maybe she’ll ask her paladin later about it.

“Why are you not using the money I am giving you to get better clothes?’’ He’d asked suddenly, eyes back on her, this time scrutinising her top to bottom from the wet old cap Robby gave her to the old hoodie and scuffed baggy trousers. She wore the new shoes she’d gotten from him which did a great job at keeping the water away from her feet, but she’d otherwise not invested in a new wardrobe. His clothes were at her attic still, washed and folded just like last time. She wondered if he did it on purpose, so he’d have a reason to invade her territory again. _Not that he needed one last time._

“I, um—‘’ She looked down at herself. “I…. forgot.’’ She did. She knew she could afford to invest in new clothes rather than buy them second-hand or accept as charity, but it simply had not been on her list of priorities. With the low moods she’d experienced in the past few days, it had been a struggle to maintain her general cleanliness, let alone muster any sense of vanity. Damian sighed, and pulled out his phone, tapping away at it with one hand while heading to the clothes stand in a corner to grab the dark red hooded jacket, he’d hung from it.

“Come on.’’

“Wh-where?’’

“You need to get rid of those clothes.’’

…what.

“ _I am sorry?_ ’’

He tsked at her as he zipped his jacket. “You’re Fay Kipling, the alleged daughter of a business magnate and my…acquaintance. People are going to start question the validity of that identity if you keep walking around looking like a vagabond.’’

“…I-I don’t look _that_ bad.’’

“You’re right. It’s worse.’’

Fay resisted the urge to roll his eyes as she followed him out of the office.

Damian Wayne was a kind person.

But he was also an asshole. Lately instead of running or shy away from him whenever he made comments like that, she just got the sudden urge to kick him.

.

_“Is that who I think it is?’’_

_“He is one of Bruce Wayne’s wards. How many does he have now? Like a hundred?’’_

_“That’s the youngest. He is the actual son, isn’t he though?’’_

_“Ah that’s right. Can’t say I am surprised. His father is one of the most sought-after bachelors in Gotham, isn’t he?’’_

Fay only half-listened to the two shop assistants as they continued their gossip, unaware or perhaps uncaring that she could hear them from the changing room. With a sigh she inspected some of the clothes that she’d selected after Damian dragged her into the shop despite her protests. There was a time when she wouldn’t have batted an eye at the price of the materials, but in that moment, she eyed the tags apprehensively.

They were nice clothes though, made from soft materials designed to keep the wearer comfortable.

Damn. He won’t let her leave until she bought something, so she’ll go with the least expensive items to get him off her back whilst not also burning through her own wallet. It was important to save as much as she could so travel would be easier in Europe. She had already failed to contain herself at not buying several books from Mr. Fitzwilliam’s shop, even though she knew most of them would have to be left behind.

The beanie-scarf-gloves set made from merino wool would do, then, priced at no less than two-hundred dollars yet it was by the cheapest of the items she’d grabbed. Fay rather liked them – they were soft to the touch, and a dark red colour with white delicate patterns. The other clothes would have been nice too, but they were going to cost almost a thousand dollars and she’d be reckless to spend that much money on clothes, regardless of how pushy Damian was being about it.

_“Keep an eye on the girl that’s in cabin four.’’_

_“Why?’’_

_“Did you see how she’s dressed? I doubt she can afford any of those clothes so we might want to watch for sticky fingers.’’_

_“She came in with him, though, didn’t she? So, they know each other. Maybe his friend…or a relative?’’_

_“I doubt a boy like that would be friends with someone like that. And if she was a relative, would she really dress like that?’’_

_“I guess. She seems sweet though, so let’s not scare her.’’_

_“Maybe she’s a charity case of sorts? His father seems to have a thing for orphans so like father like son, right?’’_

_“That’s cynical, Louise.’’_

_“Oh, come on, Elaine, don’t be naïve. I bet it looks good for them when they pick up a new orphan every now and then. Shows they have a heart.’’_

Louise was not wrong, as much of a harpy as she was. With fame and wealth came the pressure to maintain a certain image that could negatively impact one’s own place in the upper echelons of society. It wasn’t by the far the worst words she’d heard someone whisper behind her back, but her heart stung all the same, feeling conflicted about Damian once again. He did say so himself that how Fay Kipling looked mattered, especially since she associated with him which wasn’t unreasonable nor unfair, as indelicate as he may have been about it. It was ironic, and borderline hysterical how she was something as lesser still regardless of her identity. In her world, she struggled to keep up with the expectations that came with her predetermined status and in that world, she came across as a charity case.

With a sigh, she hoisted her backpack up by one strap and gathered the clothes she hadn’t even bothered to try on, before pushing away the curtain of the changing room to step out. She’d left Bagheera with Damian in the sitting near not too far from the changing rooms, and the two gossiping women were standing behind a stand posited at the entrance of the room, where there were other several changing rooms as well. Fay was willing to bet all her money that the blonde who looked her up and down with plastic smile was Louise, because the other girl’s smile was genuine and her eyes kinder. The names on the badges pinned high on her chest confirmed her suspicions. 

“All done, sweetie?’’ Elaine said, and Fay smiled politely back, handing her the two sweatshirts, cardigan, and pair of soft trousers she’d decided not to purchase, keeping the box with the accessories in one hand. “You’ll have just that?’’ Fay nodded. Louise stepped closer to her; same false smile plastered on. “If it’s okay with you, may I check your backpack?’’

Fay was tempted to say no, finding the woman unpleasant but equally she did not want to create a scene. Sighing again, she reached to lower the strap of the backpack.

“Touch that and this will be your last day of employment.’’

All three turned to look with equal amounts of surprise, and saw Damian stand a couple of feet away, hands in pocket, Bagheera next to him. Neither boy nor beast looked particularly happy, judging by the withering looks they were throwing the two women. Fay wasn’t surprised by Bagheera having heard the women discuss; he probably could feel their emotions too. But judging by the cold look in Damian’s eyes, he had also heard it. Fay glanced past his shoulder at the seating area which had to have been at least thirty feet away. She knew he had a very sensitive hearing, borderline inhuman. Sometimes she forgot that he wasn’t just Damian Wayne but also _Robin_.

A gross oversight on her end. It meant she was growing too comfortable around him.

“I—I am sorry?’’ Louise said.

Green eyes were hard, like emeralds as they flitted over Elaine, frozen in her spot holding the clothes that Fay had handed back. “She’ll take all of those so pack them up.’’ Fay’s mouth opened in protest, but he rounded up on Louise again, with a look that she was certain he gave to criminals as well. “Gossip is for the weak of mind. Reckless of you engage in such behaviour with clients that could very well determine your future here.’’ He said icily. “Apologise to her. Now.’’

Oh dear.

“I—what—I haven’t done anything wrong. It’s policy to conduct random searches.’’ The woman defended rather weakly.

“So now you’re insulting my intelligence.’’ If Louise got any paler, she’d look like a ghost. “Spare yourself the humiliation and apologise to her before you waste our time any further.’’

The shop assistant looked very uneasy, but she turned towards Fay, looking castigated. “I am very sorry. It was not my intention to offend you.’’ Yes, it was. She knew exactly how prejudiced she was being. But Fay nodded, silently accepting her apology, too struck by how Damian had defended her.

Elaine packed the clothes, placed them in two different brand bags and then handed them to Fay who tried to protest when she saw Damian hand the shop assistant his bank card. The look he threw her stopped any words from coming out of her mouth.

“If you’ll follow me to the till,’’ Elaine said slightly nervous. “I will process this right away, Mr. Wayne.’’

Before they left Bagheera huffed at Louise loudly, making her jump visibly and let out a rather undignified sound. “Bag, stop.’’ Fay chastised, gently nudging him away from the woman. She could feel her paladin’s satisfaction, underlined by mischief. 

Once they were out of the store, Fay had to take a deep breath because turning to look at the boy. “You…you didn’t have to do that.’’

“You should have defended yourself.’’ The boy replied curtly. “You were going to allow her to check your bag although she had no valid grounds for doing so.’’

Fay nodded. “I…I know. But—I try to choose my battles.’’ She’s rather terrible at it, however.

Damian glanced askance at her, some of his irritation fading away into a look of curiosity. “That’s an interesting way to put it.’’

 _Is…is it that strange to say it?_ “It’s just something…my father used to say.’’ They turned left down the mall walkway, heading nowhere in particular. Fay had always been curious about what a ‘mall’ looked like, after hearing from Robby that he liked spending time there but from what he’s told her and her own research, it had seemed like a very busy setting. She had crossed it off her list of destinations not wishing to spend time in a place that might trigger her panic attacks, even more so if she could not bring Bagheera with her. However, Damian told her that the mall was quiet during the week, at that time of the day and he was right.

It was an interesting building, five stories high with an immense parking that was largely empty when the private driver left them at the entrance. The shopping mall had a hundred or so stores full of messages and images designed at attracting the shopper’s attention, and in a way, it wasn’t that much different from the bazaars in Maysoon. She preferred the one in her homeland, but she still took her time to admire their surroundings. The ceiling was domed high like a cathedral, made of glass and steel and the aisles were like rivers ramifying in a maze starting from the open hall in the middle of the building where there were elevators and escalators. A wide variety of scents assailed her nostrils from chemical perfume smells to pastries, from flavoured tobacco to the fresh pine scent of the shining floors.

Bagheera, overwhelmed slightly, had sneezed several times, scaring a few other shoppers because in that large empty space, the sound reverberated across onto the aisles on the other side.

“Is that why you had the Art of War by Sun Tzu in your collection?’’ He asked casually. Damian Wayne did not do casual, so he was trying to find out something from her, she just wasn’t sure what.

She grabbed the copy from Mr. Fitzwilliam’s store not only because it was a book, she was familiar with - her father having owned several different editions - but because she also thought it might help her recalibrate her own strategies in regards to Damian. Not that she had ever been much of a tactician, certainly not the way her father used to be at her age, but she lived and breathed those teachings. 

She shrugged, not sure how to respond without revealing too much. “My father…enjoyed reading too. He…he liked that book too.’’ There was nothing out of ordinary about that. It wasn’t as if people didn’t read in that world. It just happened that her parents owned a private, and rather secret collection of books that in the past would have warranted a death penalty, that’s all. “I…I don’t understand all of it.’’ She understood most of it, had even had to put in practice several of those strategies in the past. “It…it just reminded me of him.’’ It did. “He—he used to say that it’s not just for…actual war, but…everyday living, I guess.’’ _Stop. Stop there, too far._

But she wanted to. _No. He’s Robin, remember? He will figure it out if I am not careful. I can’t let my guard down._

The walkway they were on spilled in a large food court to their left, so she followed Damian through it, where they took occupied a table for two. _Does that mean we’re not done shopping?_ She’d only spotted a dozen or so of people, teenagers mostly and a couple of families with overexcitable children. The food stores there were primarily ‘fast-food’ but the one they sat at advertised healthier choices, an international buffet of some sort. 

“This isn’t…one of the healthy places on your list.’’ She muttered, looking at the menu on the screens as she arranged the backpack and bags by her feet, making a mental note to thank him for paying for the clothes. And defending her. She was still processing that one, though.

“It’s too early for the other restaurants but it’s certainly a better choice.’’ He didn’t look particularly enthusiastic, as he stayed standing and she realized he was waiting for her. “You’ve eaten breakfast.’’ She’d gotten used to his way of making statements instead of asking questions. “…yeah. Oatmeal with nuts and honey.’’ Not her favourite dish, but it was substantial and offered a slow release, so her energy levels lasted longer. Fay hadn’t fully recovered from the Bad Day, but it was getting better. Faster than usual. “Um,’’ She raised to her feet, feeling light without her backpack or shopping and she exchanged a look with her paladin. “Stay here?’’

Bagheera just sat down by her chair. Nobody would dare steal her items with him there.

A funny feeling settled in her stomach as they both grabbed a tray and placed themselves in the short line that had formed, because she and Damian weren’t friends, but they seemed to be doing things that friends would. They went shopping and now they were going to eat together, and it felt rather…nice, which was exactly the problem. Fay thought that if she kept reminding herself that there was no actual bond between them, that he was Robin and she was a momentary distraction, potentially a target too, it’d be easier to detach herself from that sense of…earning.

She’d been through this one too many times to know that she’d end up disappointed and she wasn’t even looking to being anyone’s friend this time.

Bagheera was enough, so why look for anyone else? 

_Right?_

Not liking how her thoughts were heading towards Titoh and _the others,_ she turned her gaze towards the various bain maries and bowls and plates. The set-up reminded her of the soup kitchen except the choices were more varied. With her appetite increasing as the various cents wafted over her, she decided to go for rice with seafood, a dish borrowed from Spain – _paella_ -, a bottle of lime and ginger juice and a brownie.

Damian didn’t even give her a choice in paying because he went ahead of her – spinach and ricotta pasta, for him – and by the time she reached him he had already taken care of the bill.

This time she sighed. “You didn’t have to— ‘’

“You do realize if you’re paying, it’s still with my money.’’ He remarked. _Your father’s money_ was right on the tip of her tongue, but she swallowed the words. He had a way of bringing up her defiant streak too, not just her violent one.

“I…well.’’ Damn it. He had a point. “I had money from soup kitchen too.’’ She mumbled unconvincingly, following him back to the table. Bagheera had eaten well that morning, but he still perked up at the sight of her tray and she smiled slightly as she took her seat. “I will get you a beef burrito today on the way back.’’ He licked his muzzle, pleased with the idea.

Damian watched the interaction curiously but didn’t comment. Instead he glanced at her hands pointedly. “You don’t need to work there anymore.’’ She had at least three different band aids because she’d taken off her gloves off while scrubbing some of the pots, finding it easier to do so with her hands bare. The scouring pad damaged her cuticles, drawing blood and the cleaning products had given her temporary hives which hadn’t fully disappeared.

“I want to.’’ She responded simply. “…Dana helps others, so I like helping her.’’ Fay chose a spoon for her dish to reduce the potential embarrassment moments in trying to get the rice up to her mouth. The food did taste good, and it was fresh, too. Maysoon had many traditional dishes based around seafood so she felt particularly pleased with her choice. Of course, the dish in front of her did not compare to the ones in Maysoon, but it was acceptable.

“She’s counting on a child to clean her kitchen, and she’s not even paying you a full salary.’’

Fay looked up at him sharply, feeling defensive of the woman while also trying to see it from his point of view. To anyone who didn’t know Dana, she probably did come across as if she was taking advantage.

“She…helped me. Told me about the attic.’’ Fay said between bites. “And---and I don’t mind the work. It’s the least I can do. Plus…’’ With her free hand she played with the etiquette on the bottle of juice because she could never keep still when she was around him. “She always has to pay for so many expenses, and she…she still gives me money although she can’t afford it.’’ In the past couple of weeks Fay had accepted the money Dana gave her, but she’d always find a way to put it back in her wallet. She was tempted to make an anonymous donation but first she had to think through carefully her own expenses for the journey to Europe. As grateful as she was, she had to think about their welfare—Bagheera’s specifically.

Damian looked at his food as if it had offended him, and after only one bite, he decided against finishing his meal. Fay half-expected him to storm to the manager of the restaurant and insult him.

“Isn’t the—‘’ He scowled. “— _Soul Bowl_ in receipt of a grant?’’

She had to admit it was a corny name. “Um, yeah. But---there’s always money missing.’’ She pursued her lips. “Dana said that it’s not just taxes. The council wasn’t…. very helpful as why it keeps happening.’’ They were borderline malicious.

“Hnn.’’ He reached for his bottle of still water, unscrewing the tap and taking a few sips. Fay didn’t eat the entire plate of food, but she felt satiated, so she sipped at some of the juice using a straw.

“Thank you.’’ She mustered the courage to say, taking advantage of the silence that befell them. “For—for defending me. And um, for paying.’’ He had the weirdest way of helping her.

He regarded her silently, before shamelessly stealing her brownie which made her gap at him. “Consider the favour repaid.’’ He smirked. “You shouldn’t eat this much sugar.’’

“But-but you can?’’ She asked, feeling miffed.

“I am at peak physical condition. Shall we go over yours?’’ He asked smarmily.

There it was. That urge to kick him again.

“No.’’ She mumbled, taking another sip of her juice instead. She was going to stop and buy some sweets on the way to the soup kitchen, extra sugary, too. Just because.

She swore he was eating the brownie purposefully slow just to aggravate her.

“Do you believe it? What your father said about applying military principles.’’ He asked when he was halfway through it.

Fay played with the straw for a few moments, contemplating her answer. If she said no, it wouldn’t sound plausible. He’d know if she was lying. “Yes. Maybe...maybe not all of them, but some, I guess so.’’

“Which one?’’

He wasn’t just asking because he was curious; she had a feeling he was asking as a strategist himself. He had to have been in the position of coming up with battle tactics if he was Robin “…All warfare is based on deception.’’ She did not remember all the military principles listed in the book but there were some she knew better than others, as they were also ingrained in the teachings she received from her tutors, just with different words. 

“Oh?’’ He peeled the paper wrapping of the remaining of his brownie. “I am listening.’’

 _Careful,_ she reminded herself. “People care about…appearances. And reputation. How---‘’ She looked away from him to the group of adolescents that took a table not too far from them, to their left. There were three boys and two girls, raucous as they sat down. “----how others perceive them. So…people lie. They…. change who they are so they are---liked. Popular.’’ It was so much more than that, but it was the safest piece of information she could go for, even if it still touched close to her heart.

He didn’t say anything, just stared at her intently so she continued. “It’s not just to be liked but…I think many people pretend they are something they’re not. Because---it’s easier that way.’’

“Do you?’’

“I, um…well I am not really Fay Kipling.’’

“You know very well that’s not what I was asking.’’ Crap.

He was asking her if she was hiding something. There was nothing coincidental or innocuous about that. “Everyone has…parts of themselves that—that they want to hide.’’ She said, finally.

“Hm. What do you think I am hiding?’’

_Does he know I know?!_

“I—I don’t know.’’ Fay muttered but didn’t look away knowing it would only make her look guilty. “It’s none…of my business.’’ He just made it her business when he refused to go away.

“Hmm, you observe though, don’t you?’’ He challenged. “The way you look at people and when you step into a room. You’re not just looking but observing. When we first met at the restaurant, you were looking for exits and you did the same when we arrived at the mall.’’ Was her face as hot as it felt? She felt her trepidation increase, and she hid her hands under the table, fumbling with the sleeves of her jumper. Her hands felt sweaty, but they were cold. “I---what’s wrong with that?’’ Evade, evade, evade.

“Nothing.’’ He finished the last bite of the brownie. “But people rarely observe the way you do. So, I am curious.’’

It felt more like a subtle interrogation to her. “…I like observing people.’’ She wiped a hand against her own kneecap. “It just helps me…understand better, I guess.’’ It was a partial truth, but deception was most effective when rooted in honesty, was it not?

“You’ve observed me as well.’’ Her mouth felt dry although she’d only taken a few sips a few minutes earlier. “You asked about my fingers and deduced why I had taped them.’’

“I…guess.’’ Where was he going with this, anyway? “I mean…I guessed. I—it just reminded me of my father’s.’’

“What else?’’ He asked. “What else have you observed?’’ _About me_. He didn’t say it, but she heard it anyway.

It was a test.

It had to be.

Fay took a deep breath to steady herself, knowing he wouldn’t let it go if she didn’t answer and it will only come across as dubious if she refused. If he knew she knew about his identity, she might end up confirming it.

“You’ve done it before, telling me what you really think. When I first made you offer, then again at the museum.’’ He remarked. “Go ahead, even if you think it will offend me. I will not hold you to it.’’

She didn’t believe him entirely. He was more sensitive than he came across as at the beginning. “I think…you are arrogant.’’ She said tentatively, and to his credit, he looked unfazed. Well, be it his way then. Bagheera would interfere if things got out of hand, and he’d alert her if Damian decided he was going to hold her accountable for the honesty he’d asked for, after all. “And…entitled. You don’t care if you’re---hurtful to other people, generally and um, you always assume that people will just do things your way like…like you did when we first met. It was---offensive and…’’ She ran her tongue over her upper teeth, hesitating. “And scary.’’

“Are you still scared?’’

“Yes.’’ What was the point in lying? Her fear had never been hidden.

“Go on.’’ He said calmly. Too calm. His posture was not tenser than usual, but she felt Bagheera nudge her ankle with his nuzzle. He sensed something else than calmness from the boy, then. Did it anger him to hear that description of himself? Surely it wasn’t anything new.

Or maybe…it did hurt him? There were so many negative things she could keep on saying. He was invasive and had no respect for her privacy and he caused her heartache as much as he brought forward old hopes that she thought she’d squished permanently. She couldn’t bring herself to say any more of it though because Damian wasn’t just those flaws. 

“I thought you were…kind of terrible. I still do…sometimes.’’ It wasn’t wise being this honest, but it felt…good to give voice to those thoughts. It’s as if some of the power she felt he had over her was waning. “But--you’re not just that. All those things I said. I think you….’’ It felt like she was pushing them into a new - _and old_ – territory with the subsequent words but she felt compelled to say them, even if there was a part of her – _the distrustful, paranoid one_ – that told her she was just playing into his hands. “I think you are kind.’’

The food court was by far from being quiet, but they might as well have been just the two of them with the silence that befell them. He stared at her with a neutral look, but his eyes…. they looked darker. Something shifted in them. 

“You’re not making any sense.’’ He said, his tone unreadable again. “You’re contradicting yourself so if you are trying to rectify your previous statement, that is a poor attempt. I already told you that I won’t retaliate if you’re honest.’’ Fay had a feeling he didn’t hear those words very often. Fay didn’t think she’d ever say them either, but she did believe he was kind, regardless of ulterior motivations. She knew it in her heart, which may have been wrong before, but she still felt inclined to follow.

“I meant…what I said. All of it.’’ Her brows furrowed slightly. “A person is not just one…thing.’’

“But I frighten you.’’

“Yes.’’ For so, _so_ many reasons. “…that doesn’t mean you can’t be a good person.’’ _Because you’re also Robin._ _Because you…you were good to me._

He looked as if he had been slapped, a brief look that she would later wonder if she had really seen it. His eyes hardened, not unlike they did at the store and his jaw was set in a tight lock. “I am not a good person.’’ He said suddenly. There was something about the way he said it that made her wonder…just how many layers of him she hadn’t seen yet. He wasn’t as transparent as her, after all.

_Why would he say that? He helps people, doesn’t he?_

“I think you are.’’ She countered in a low tone, even as she told herself it was best not to comment further. “You…are a kind and generous person, just like Dana…and Mrs. Wilmot. Just---in a different way.’’ Was she wrong? Perhaps she was being too forgiving, maybe she wanted to see him as a good person because that meant he wasn’t the threat she thought he was. Or perhaps it was because she liked the idea that he had chosen to be kind to her out of all people. Wishful, ridiculous thinking but she couldn’t stop it.

“You don’t know anything about me so it’s presumptuous of you to be making such absolute statements.’’

Look who’s talking.

“You--You don’t know anything about me either, but you thought I was…heroic.’’ She responded, feeling brave because she could sense he was the one taken back for once, instead of her. “I am---I am only judging based on what I know. So, for now…that’s my opinion.’’ She wasn’t saying it was set in stone, because she’d learnt sometimes not even years let alone a couple of months, were enough to know everything about a person. In that moment, she did see him that way and while she worried – _paranoid, hurt Fay expected it_ – that he’ll disappoint her in the future, she just wanted to him know that she did see his kindness.

If he didn’t seem himself as a good person, then why did he fight on the side of the heroes?

 _Has nobody told him that? That he’s kind too?_ Because…. that’s sad. What kind of relationship did he have with his parents, then? Did they know about his other life? If Bruce was Batman, didn’t he…think that? Was he the one who told Damian he wasn’t a good person?

“It seems to me you insist on seeing everyone for what you want them to be, not what they are.’’ He said in a clipped tone. “For someone who acknowledges the world is a dark place, you seem to forget that easily. You say you understand that the world employs deception just like in warfare, yet you ignore it. It is naïve, and it will get you killed, especially in a place like Gotham.’’ His foul mood had returned, it seems. 

Fay’s hands balled into fists as she felt _that_ emotion filtering through in her heart at his words.

“I never forget.’’ She managed through gritted teeth, with more heat than either of them expected. But not as surprising as the valiance she mustered in meeting his gaze and hold it. “I know…there’s monsters.’’ _I met them_. “That doesn’t mean everyone is.’’

“And you’ve decided I am not one either. Are you sure want to gamble like that?’’

“…yes.’’ She did not have much choice but to gamble, really. Isn’t what she’s been doing since she’s accepted his offer?

“Fine.’’ Damian tutted. “Be it your way.’’ He raised to his feet swiftly. “I believe we have a new wardrobe to finish completing so let’s get done with it. We’ve wasted enough time as it is.’’

As if she’s one who dragged him there.

Fay nodded, gathered her stuff, and followed him out of the food court, paladin in tow.

Damian didn’t act any differently for the rest of their shopping ventures, but something changed.

She couldn’t place her finger on it but…something did.


	12. The beginning of something (III)

_“You are afraid to let anyone in, but you still leave the door open, hoping someone  
good will shut the door behind him and throw away the keys.’’ _

  
\- Jenim Dibie

.

.

.

_24 th of September _

_“Son of a bitch!’’_

Fay jumped, nearly cutting her finger off with the knife she was using to chop tomatoes on the main table in the kitchen. Bagheera, curled up at the entrance also perked up while Mack, startled, dropped the wooden spoon on the floor. “What is wrong with you, woman?!’’ He yelled through the pass through. Thankfully, soup kitchen hadn’t opened yet so there was no one else to hear his yells or Dana’s colourful language. Mack bent to pick up the spoon, grumbling under his breath as he did. “Always telling me not to swear around the children, yet she goes ahead and drops bombs like that.’’

Dana burst through the door, pale-faced and eyes bulging. Fay put down the knife, wiping her hands on her apron, looking at the same concern that Mack did. Dana slid the stool out from underneath the table to sit on it. She was clutching a sheet of paper on it, the creases indicating it had arrived as a letter, but hadn’t said anything otherwise. 

“Jesus, woman, just get to it.’’ Mack said gruffly. “What is it? Did someone die?’’

Fay nodded, approaching the woman, but not too much because she looked—well, unhinged.

“I must be losing my mind, but can one of you read this for me? There’s no way it says what I think it does.’’ The woman breathed, and Mack grabbed the letter to read it out loud.

“For the attention of Dana Mercher, my name is Colton Harris and I am contacting you on behalf of the Gotham City Council. It has recently been brought to my attention that you have had experienced issues in receiving your monthly charitable grant for which I would like to extend my deepest apologies. Our Foundation was implemented with the vision of supporting Gotham communities, and your organization, the Soul Bowl soup kitchen, has single-handedly been supporting hundreds of our underprivileged residents. We would like to thank you for your continuous efforts and to confirm that we will expend any discrepancies you have experienced within the next three to five business days. Considering your commendable commitment, the City Council would also like to offer you a…’’ Mack trailed off, eyes widening, thick brows raising so high they almost touched his hairline. 

“….an additional grant of fifteen thousand dollars, in according with Section 607 blah blah---‘’ Mack jumped a few lines, now looking just as agitated as Dana. “…. if you agree, we expect you to provide us with regular monthly reporting, or as often as required by our organisation. If you wish to accept, please respond within the next seven working days at the email address detailed below. I would welcome the opportunity to discuss this new arrangement with you face to face at your earliest available…’’ He stopped there. 

Silence.

Mack and Dana stared at each other bewildered. Fay stared at them both, sheepishly but they made no note of her.

Damian went and did it _again_ , didn’t he? It had to have been him. Only he could be so over the top---dramatic, really - when he helped another person. 

Dana could do so much with that money, and she was clearly thinking exactly about that, judging by the distant look in her eyes. 

“Wow.’’ Mack broke the silence finally. “Boy, they really know how to make up for a mistake, don’t they?’’

“There has to be a---mistake, right?’’ Dana asked incredulously. “How does the Council even have this kind of money? They never offer more than a couple of grand and you know how difficult it was to even get our grant. I will call this Harris guy and make sure it’s not some sort of scam.’’ _It wasn’t_ , Fay thought, but didn’t comment on it.

“Maybe— ‘’ the two adults turned to look at her as she spoke for the first time since Dana walked in. “Maybe they just saw---how much you help others?’’ Fay offered. “So…they decided to help you?’’ _You deserve it, twice over really._

Mack seemed inclined to agree, as he put the letter down on the table. “Kid’s got a point. Think about all the money you’ve lost yet we never closed, not even we had to fish hundreds to fix our plumbing.’’ Dana looked unconvinced, as she grabbed the paper to read through it again, finding it difficult still to believe its contents.

“I don’t think I’ve been this lucky about anything.’’

It wasn’t luck.

Fay’s gamble was paying off.

.

Damian stared silently at the message that arrived on his phone.

‘ _Thank you for helping Dana.’_

He didn’t respond.

But he was in a good mood for the rest of the day.

.

.

.

_25 th of September _

“Hello, there.’’

“Um, hi.’’ Fay greeted back shyly, finding it hard to look away from the man’s magnetic smile.

He extended a hand towards her, and she felt compelled to shake it, face turning redder when she realized just how small hers is compared to his.

“My name is Richard Grayson, but everyone calls me Dick.’’ Well, that’s not the first nickname she’d have gone for. “You must be Fay.’’ Cobalt blue eyes moved over to the wolf-like dog watching him intently. “Oh, and you must be Bagheera!’’ She could feel her paladin’s satisfaction at the enthusiasm the man was showing upon recognizing him. Dick’s smile was infectious, and she suddenly felt tongue-tied not just because he was handsome but because his charming manner reminded her of someone else from her homeland. Someone dear.

She pulled her hand away from his warm grip, in favour of fidgeting.

“…um, how—how did you know that?’’ She asked. It was perhaps a silly question to ask but he was the only other soul she’d encountered at the penthouse that wasn’t Alfred or Damian. Fay was sitting in the living room when he came in, enjoying the warmth from the fireplace and scrolling confusedly through the channels because Damian told her he was going to be busy for another hour. Alfred was not with them again, but the same driver that took them to the mall a few days earlier: Rodrigo. He was a stoic man, who seemed to serve as both a bodyguard and chauffer and if he thought it was weird that the Wayne heir was accompanied by a girl and a wolf-like dog, he never showed it.

It wasn’t the first time they’d come to the penthouse instead of staying at the museum, and over the weeks she’d grown so accustomed to that place to the point she learned most of the layout by memory. Outside the weather was frigid that day, with a cold air that made her cough whenever she breathed it in and a chilly wind that bit at her cheeks and nose, so while the museum was generally warm, she did prefer being at the Wayne Tower.

She and Bag have been going to the park more often, to admire the nature-spun blankets of leaves that covered the dry ground the increasingly barren trees. There was no autumn in Maysoon and while in her childhood travels, she’d become acquainted with season changes in other territories, it would be the first time she’s experienced it in that world. Winter and spring were the ones left now.

“Little D has been telling me all about you.’’

_Who?_

“Little…D?’’ Amusement bubbled in her chest. He called Damian _that_. “I, um…he did?’’ Fay found it hard to imagine Damian talking about her, at least not in a favourable way. But that may have been her complexities talking. He wasn’t exactly a sharer either, but maybe he was different with those who were closer to him, which Dick seemed to be. He hadn’t died for calling him ‘ _Little D_ ’ so had to be, right? He also had access to the penthouse which she knew from Alfred was exclusive, limited to a small number of people only.

“Yup. I am his older brother, by the way.’’ He said, addressing her confusion in the process.

“Oh.’’ Damian was the only blood son of Bruce Wayne, so Dick had to be one of the adopted ones then. “Nice—nice to meet you.’’

“ _Grayson._ ’’ Fay didn’t need to be an empath like Bagheera to feel the murder intent rolling off the boy as he walked into the room, as silent as a panther and perhaps just as deadly. He was dressed in the same grey trousers and dark turtleneck as before, but he had his laptop with him this time. They were meant to be watching the documentary film that Gotham Museums planned on distributing to all schools across the city. Fay wasn’t sure why they couldn’t have just watched it at the museum, though, on his laptop directly.

With the look Damian was throwing the older man, she wondered if he was a criminal.

“Hey, Damian—‘’

“- _Tt_ -, why are you here?’’ The boy cut him off coldly. Fay was forced to move aside from her spot when Damian gestured her to do so, because he just had to sit in that corner of the sofa, which was near the armchair where Dick sat. She wouldn’t call it protectiveness, but he behaved exactly like a creature from the wild when their territory has been breached.

Fay was suddenly incredibly curious about what the relationships he had with everyone in his family. Damian was the only blood son, and rumours went that it was as a result of his father’s, erm, being a ladies’ man which made her wonder if that’s why Damian was such a stern person at times; it couldn’t have been easy being the son of such a famous person and having to deal with sycophants and gossips all the time.

She’d know better than most.

His _brother_ seemed undeterred by the attitude, however, so must have been just as immune as Alfred. Truth be told, Fay was halfway there herself.

“Alfred’s told me things have been going really well at the museum, so I went there to have a look, but they told me you’d already left.’’ Dick explained. He stared with a mix of curiosity and amusement at both, and Fay scooted further away from Damian because she’d realized their elbows and knees were touching. The boy paid her no mind. Bagheera was amused, so she glowered at him.

“I must be interrupting--‘’

“You are.’’

Dick looked at him with a patient look. “Okay, okay. I will leave you two alone, but first I needed to speak to you about something.’’ Damian tutted, visibly annoyed as he leaned forward to place his laptop on the coffee table. He got up and looked at her, but she just nodded, in understanding before watching both males walk away, until they turned left and disappeared down the corridor. She couldn’t hear what they were saying but her paladin could, with whom she exchanged a knowing look. He’d let her know if something was amiss.

Fay still planned on asking him questions later.

She was almost certain that Richard Grayson was Nightwing, after all.

.

.

.

_26 th of September_

“How’s that? Do you want it shorter still?’’ Dana asked, gently tilting Fay back up from the bowed position so she could look at her reflection.

Dana tried not to let the excitement get the best out of her, or lest she might end up scaring the girl away. Fay had agreed to come for dinner more often, and that evening she even agreed to stay over after helping Dana all day, accompanying her all-around town again. It was progress. Fay still wasn’t particularly forthcoming about herself, but she engaged in conversation more than at the beginning. She looked healthier too, was gradually putting more weight on and seemed more…energetic, even. Dana knew she had started paying more attention to what she ate and seemed to keep track of it, but she wasn’t sure what sprung that up. It had something to do with the Wayne kid, that much she was certain off.

After dinner, Fay asked her if Dana cut her hair herself and when she said yes, the girl asked her if she could help with hers.

It delighted her infinitely that Fay would trust her with such a task. Two months earlier, she couldn’t even stand having Dana closer than six feet.

The dog watched them attentively the entire time while Robby entertained himself with the ferret and dog in the living room. The cat wasn’t particularly interested in either of the humans, and only allowed Fay to touch her, but she had claimed a spot by the kitchen window and hadn’t moved since then. Dana had cut Robby’s hair many times over, as well as her own but she took her time with Fay, ensuring she didn’t touch the girl more than necessary and that she was as comfortable as possible.

Her hair was straight as a straw, a dark brown with a slight auburn shade that made Dana wonder if it became brighter in the sun. It looked healthier too, as the veteran remembers noting how thin and damaged it had looked when the girl first started working at the soup kitchen. Understandable giving her homeless conditions but must have been a result of stress and nutritional deficiencies as it’d only start recovering in the last couple of weeks. Her fringe was not much of a fringe anymore, so Dana recut it upon the girl’s request giving her a full one with a few shorter bangs to frame her face. 

Dana thought she would have looked better with the hair away from her face, and longer locks.

“No…that’s okay, thank you.’’ The hair was slightly above her shoulders, but she could still pull it back if she needed to.

The veteran smiled at the mirror. “It looks good. Maybe I should have made a career out of it.’’ Fay smiled slightly back, reaching with her left hand to brush her fingers through her fringe. The other one was holding the towel around her shoulders bunched up at her neck.

“May I ask who do you take after? Your hair, I mean.’’ Dana asked tentatively. “Only if you want to tell me, of course.’’

Something flashed in the girl’s eyes making the woman regret she’d asked but much to her surprise, Fay did answer a few seconds later. “Um, my father. My hair is more like his.’’ She said quietly.

“Okay. Alright.’’ Dana nodded. “Thank you for telling me. I take after my mother. She had light blond hair, and my father was also blonde so ta-da!’’ She flicked one of her locks. “Not for long though, given how many grey hairs I keep finding. I swear there’s five more every day.’’

The girl didn’t comment as Dana removed the towel from her shoulders, letting the hair fall on the floor which she then swept quickly. Then she brought in a couple of clean towels.

“You need to fiddle a little with the faucet, so be careful. Water comes cold at the beginning.’’ She instructed, then glanced at the duffel bag and backpack that Fay had left down by the dog. “You got everything you need?’’

Fay nodded. “Thank you.’’

“Give me a shout if you need me.’’

With that she closed the door and left the girl to her devices.

It was progress indeed.

.

.

.

_1 st of October _

Fay had largely stayed away from the final preparations for the inauguration and even her latest visits to the museum had been primarily about doing menial work, more so than usual although she didn’t mind it. Damian had been absent as well, so she hadn’t seen him in over three day. Their texts had been limited to him asking her to ensure she kept him posted if she felt unwell while following the food plan. 

She told him that everything was well, taking advantage he wasn’t psychically there to scrutinise her when she did.

It wasn’t.

But something was wrong with her body, had been for a while now but her symptoms were worsening. Her marks would ache so hard at times that they’d have her rolling around in bed in frustration or she’d find it difficult to wear clothes because they felt like a scour against her skin no matter how soft the material. She’d get random nosebleeds even if she ensured she stayed hydrated. Her headaches would escalate into such migraines that it’d take her far too many painkillers to reduce them to a manageable level. That many pills in return would cause her to be ill, starting a vicious circle.

She’s experienced all those symptoms before, but it was generally whenever she’d overexert herself using the flux which was not the case. However, being so out of sync with her flux was equally taking a toll on her body, and she was starting to worry about how much worse it’d get from there. Was it going to get worse before they found the seekers? What if they didn’t and they were stuck there for another year or more? There were no healers in that world that could help her specifically, were there?

Feeling particularly anxious, the evening of the inauguration gala, she found herself running laps back and forth down the narrow alley to clear her mind. It helped, but the cold air was making her throat feel sore and scratchy. Mack, who’d stayed behind to close the soup kitchen along with Robby and a couple of other volunteers, saw her when he took the final bins for the night.

“You alright, kiddo?’’

“F-fine.’’ Fay breathed heavily, before coughing into the back of her gloved hand. Sweet Maysoon, how could she be out of breath just after ten minutes? She may have not been training at the level she had in Maysoon but she and Bag walked thousands of steps each day; she was eating and drinking more regularly and paid more attention to the nutritional intake so how could she be tired already?

“Running in this weather will get you a cold, and it’s not safe either.’’

“I am—I am done.’’ She wasn’t, and instead waited until Mack and Robby had closed for the day and left before she ran a few more laps. It was around her fourth one that she started coughing so harshly she had to lean against Bag who immediately rushed over to her. Too busy trying to regain her breath but finding it difficult to inhale without breaking in another fit of coughs she didn’t notice Bag’s ears perk up and his head tilt to glance behind them.

Neither did she feel the figure walk up to them until they placed a hand on her shoulder. She jumped, startled, and tried to turn around, but her feet caught one onto another, making her lose her balance and start falling backwards. She never hit the ground because the intruder caught her, and although she couldn’t see his face properly in the pitch black of the alleyway, she still recognized him.

“Da—Damian?’’ She rasped out.

“I see you’re being stupidly reckless again.’’ He remarked harshly, letting go of her.

“I, um…I couldn’t sleep.’’ _I think something is very wrong with me._ “What—what are you – _cough_ – doing – _cough_ – here? What – _cough_ – _cough_ – about the pa-party?’’

He completely ignored her questions. “Hnn. Get back in the attic before you give yourself pneumonia.’’

“But I— ‘’ He didn’t wait, instead grabbing her wrist and pulling her after him towards the staircase, ignoring Bagheera’s low growl at the sudden invasion of her personal bubble. Fay was going to protest but another coughing fit stopped her and so, she found herself letting him take the lead.

His grip was tight, almost bruising and she could tell he was in a foul mood again and he didn’t let go of her until it was time to climb back inside the dance studio. It was as dark as usual because she didn’t trust leaving the lights on won’t attract the attention. Dana had told her that the landlord didn’t live nearby, and he rarely ever came around, but there was also the dance instructor and the employees on the second floor that she had to keep an eye out for.

As soon as the hatch was closed and they were in the attic, she turned on the lights and covered the windows, just to be cautious. Sitting down on the mattress, with Bag planted before her rather defensively she regarded Damian quietly. He was dressed in a suit, even more formal than the one she’d seen him wear at the museum, which fit him well, but he seemed contrite, shoulders taut and fists clenched. His face, although generally set in a frown looked as thunderous as it did the day she’d caught him waiting for her in the shadows.

“Is—is everything oka—‘’ She doubled over, unable to finish her sentence because she started coughing so hard she feared her lungs might be expulsed in the process.

Something was wrong with her, indeed. The coughing didn’t subsidise for another several minutes, and by the end of it she felt as if she’d run a marathon, her ribs ached, and her throat was raw. Pulling herself deep into the fort which she had re-set and wrapping her newly bought duvet around herself, she instinctively massaged her throat. The dog and ferret, startled by the awful sounds that she made, had run away from the mattress and the cat had stopped being interested in anything else in favour of offering her attention to Damian.

He on the other hand, just handed her the bottle of water she’d left on top of the fridge and didn’t say anything.

“I’m---I am sorry.’’ She managed after drinking a few large gulps.

“Tch. You always apologise then you still go ahead and do stupid things.’’ He snorted.

“No…. that’s—that’s not what I meant.’’ Fay glanced at him, as she lowered the bottle. “You---you always help me. But—I—I can’t repay you…or help you.’’ _Again._

Although if he asked her to walk twenty miles again, she’d probably have to say no or risk blacking out.

“I don’t need help.’’

He was such a proud creature, wasn’t he? “…okay.’’ She bit her lip, hesitating before giving voice to her next question. “Are—are you okay?’’ He didn’t seem okay. Damian generally ran hotter, he was easily irritated and borderline aggressive, but she’d rarely ever seen him so furious. She had to be cautious, like when approaching an angry beast in the jungle. 

“I am fine.’’ It was well within her rights, but she didn’t dare ask him why he was there.

“…okay.’’

An awkward silence settled, interrupted only by the chitter of the ferret as he sneaked back towards the mattress, taking his place in a corner and the cat meowing as she rubbed herself against Damian’s legs. The dog also settled inside the fort, taking his place on a small pillow that he had claimed for his own for weeks now. 

The right thing to do would have been to ask him to leave, because he was clearly not in a civil mood – even less so than usual - and she felt her paladin’s apprehensiveness when she touched him. If Damian had came there with the intent of hurting her though, Bag would have never allowed him to come in the attic.

So.

Curse her weak heart.

“Do…do you want so sit?’’ Fay offered meekly, pushing herself deeper into the fort and to the side. If her sense of self-preservation had had a psychical form, it would have slapped her. “We, um…don’t need to talk but if you want to read….’’ Even if he did tell her what got him in such a mood, she wasn’t sure she could help; it was more likely she’d end up saying the wrong things. Being stuck with him in a small space when he was in that mood spelled disaster, especially if he ended aggravating Bagheera as well.

“Hnn.’’

Shoes, blazer, and tie abandoned on the ground, he did join her inside the fort, and even accepted the blanket. Bagheera watched rather unhappily, preferring to be the one to sit on the mattress next to her, eventually settling his head on the edge, keeping his eyes trained on them both.

“It was a success.’’ Damian said eventually, as he perused over the book she’d left abandoned on the bed when she’d decided to go for a run. It was a compilation of short stories around Agatha Christie’s, _Hercule Poirot_. “The donations made have exceeded the estimated numbers.’’

Fay smiled weakly. “That’s---that’s really good.’’

He didn’t look satisfied, though but she didn’t pry, however curious she may have been about. In the end they sat in silence for hours, which gradually became less uncomfortable until she was hardly paying attention to him as she became absorbed in _Robinson Crusoe_. Damian shamelessly claimed the other book for himself.

The wind outside made the windows rattle, and the small electric heater struggled to keep the air warm throughout the attic, but she felt sheltered in the duvet, leaning back against one of the bigger pillows. She tried not think about how…natural it all felt, tried to remind herself that he was also Robin and that he was dangerous, and the many ways in which he was a threat to her and Bag, and their existence in that realm.

It was not effective, because all she could see was a boy, that must be carrying burdens of his own. Because he did. Fay knows enough of pain, as much as the way it can manifest differently in people to recognize it in others. Her heart was betraying her mind, but Fay wanted to know what his pain was, what scars he carried, why he was never happy, if there had been a time when he had been different, what relationship did he have with his family members, if he felt lonely – _as she did_ -, if he was loved – _as she had been_ -.

Fay wanted desperately to know what their arrangement meant, because she was becoming fast invested in it, her heart corrupted by old hopes, ignoring how wrong it’s been before and how much it had hurt.

One of her tutor’s words rang in her mind that night.

‘ _The moment you humanize your enemy, the moment you start thinking about where he came and what is he like, you can consider you’ve lost the battle even before it started.’_

Damian had never been her enemy, per se. Not in the traditional sense, but he was a potential threat, one she had little ways of defending herself against. She had accepted the offer as much as to repay his generosity as it was to understand just how dangerous he’d be to her down the line; to know what he knew and assess the risks. She had been deceiving herself, of course, into thinking she won’t become emotionally involved.

Her, the girl who always felt too much too often, to the point she required a prison in the form of bracelets to keep her under control.

_He is not my friend, not even my ally._

_I don’t belong here._

_He doesn’t belong in my life and I don’t belong in his._

_He is not even a nice person._

None of that has changed.

_Except._

Now she was foolishly doing it again. That thing that she had determined was useless because it never ended well for her. It didn’t undo that night, it didn’t bring back her parents or her brother, although he was still alive. _I wonder what he is doing now. If he wonders the same about me._

She was hoping again.

In the end, she fell asleep (Master Tora would have popped a vein if he knew how easily she lowered her guard) and when she woke up in the early hours of the morning, Damian was gone.

She wondered if he had even been there at all.

A book was left near her though, that she hadn’t touched at all ever since she’d left it at the bottom of one of her literary towers. It was Shakespeare’s _Macbeth_. Fay knew well who the author was and his significance in that world, but truth be told, she hadn’t managed to get herself immersed in his works as she did in others. His tragedies had a way of triggering her. She wasn’t sure why Damian left it there when Agatha Christie’s collection was put away on the floor, and there was no note or book sign in it either.

However, as she scrolled curiously through the used pages – that book must’ve have passed many hands before it arrived in her possession – one drew her attention. It contained Act 1, Scene 4.

The book was filled with doodles and underlined words, and notes left by previous owners, but she was certain the drawing she found in the corner of that page had not been there before. It was a small rendering of what must’ve been Macbeth given the presence of a crown, but his features were unclear, shading delicate and lines blurring, a quick portrait.

So, Damian…drew it? The sketch had been done quickly, without much attention to detail but it was good. Fay wouldn’t have pegged him as an artist.

She ended up reading Macbeth for hours.

But her eyes would return again and again over that page, wondering if there was a reason why he chose to draw on it. 

_“O worthiest cousin, The sin of my ingratitude even now Was heavy on me.  
Thou art so far before That swiftest wing of recompense is slow  
To overtake thee. Would thou hadst less deserved,  
That the proportion both of thanks and payment Might have been mine!  
Only I have left to say, More is thy due than more than all can pay.’’_

.

.

.

_4 th of October _

Gotham was still noisy at night, and she still struggled whenever the chaos would get too close to the soup kitchen. Fay wondered just how much worse it was for Bagheera with his keen senses; he often stayed awake throughout the night alert and on guard.

That night she found herself leaning over the windowsill of the circular window glancing at the dark streets below which were empty save for the odd couple or group of friends walking from or to late venues. In the distance, towards Gotham River she saw smoke rise in the air and heard the faint sirens of police cars echoing through the streets.

It was a cold, starless night and the air only worsened her cough, which she concluded had nothing to do with a cold or lung infection. Her stamina was worsening as well; working in the soup kitchen or walking at the museum, were now tasks that drained her rapidly. When Dana saw her sway on her feet that morning and heard the ragged breath – she had only been mopping the floor, hardly an effort – she asked Fay whether she had the flu. The girl just shrugged, muttered ‘maybe’ because she wasn’t sure to say otherwise.

Damian didn’t let it go quite as easily when he saw that she was out of breath and needed to drink her entire bottle of water before she felt steady enough to stand up; he told her to go back to the attic, drink fluids and ‘stop spreading germs’ around. However, she was to let him know if she developed a fever or other symptoms. Fay vomited as soon as they returned, and her marks ached for hours. It was the kind of pain that reverberated to her bones and skull and made her want to crawl out of her own skin.

Her body temperature did raise, far above to what would have been considered normal, but she’d chugged down several painkillers and tried to focus on the calming emotions that Bagheera projected onto her, distracting herself. She’d lie if she said she wasn’t tempted to text Damian, because he might help her understand what was wrong with her. At the very least maybe he’ll start one of their discussions, and he’d keep her grounded.

She felt disgusted with herself each time she thought that. Damian had become a coping mechanism that she had grown dependent of.

That day quickly turned into a Bad Day.

Hours later, as she leaned over that windowsill and squinted in the distance, she spotted dark figures gliding through the air between buildings as swiftly as birds. Damian had to be one of them, and she was curious what he looked like when he was in the air like that, wearing that incredibly colourful uniform of his. She wondered if he used his sword, how good he was, if he was as dangerous as she thought he was.

She hated herself for it, but she also worried.

Damian was hardly a friend, yet his intermittent acts of kindness were all she needed for her to start caring in such a manner. 

_Needy. Desperate. Undeserving._

No wonder Titoh didn’t want her around.

Damian would come to the same conclusion, soon enough.

.

.

.

_7 th of October _

Fay was pulling away. He knew she’d experienced another ‘Bad Day’ as she seemed to label them, three days earlier, and it had taken its toll on her body and psyche. The little weight that she did put on was lost, and the bags under her eyes were darker with each day pass. It would be naïve to think that her nightmares had stopped just because she had a better routine, but it seemed it was more than just a bad day that was affecting her. She was quieter, reserved, refused to let him in, although they’ve made progress in the past several weeks.

He lost his patient the third time he asked a question and she answered with less than three words, clearly not taking the bait.

She was getting worse.

Fay had been allowing him in her personal bubble many times over the past weeks, when she’d figured he wasn’t interested in violating it in the manner Wilmot did often. Generally, he’d grab her by her hood or backpack to get her attention, but he refrained from personal contact. He could respect that. But that day she seemed intent on keeping him at least six feet away and when he tentatively stepped closer, pretending to reach for the strap of her back she had flinched away hard, as if she expected him to hit her.

It made him sick to the stomach.

Because others must have done that to her. Touched her in manners they had no right. 

She been honest in that she was still afraid of him. He shouldn’t have cared; he liked it when people were afraid of him. They had every right to be.

But he didn’t want _her_ to be.

_“I know…there’s monsters.’’_

Did she see him as one of the people who hurt her?

A monster, as well.

And she didn’t even know half of it.

.

.

.

_6 th of October_

Bagheera whined softly, letting his concern project over to her as she stood a couple of feet away, dabbing a cloth into a bowl filled with water that was steadily turning rosy. “I am fine.’’ Fay said, unconvincingly because she didn’t know if she was fine or not. It was the sixth nosebleed that week, and she’d had another five the previous week. They were getting worse, just like the ache she felt in her marks, and the crippling migraines. She was trying to push through with eating and drinking as per the food plan, but she started vomiting again.

It was as if her body was determined to destroy itself.

Fay couldn’t hide her growing worry from her paladin, but she had managed to keep her state a secret from Damian by lying that she’d been gaining weight still, although she struggled doing so. He will figure it out eventually, he always did. He will probably push for her to see an actual doctor and she wasn’t sure she’ll be able to stop him, which meant it was only a matter of time before Damian would find out that she wasn’t like other children there.

Her paladin didn’t think it was such a bad idea anymore, if she saw a healer in that world, after coughing joined the other symptoms.

Fay pretended she didn’t see the blood on her hand whenever she’d finish hacking and rasping.

It wouldn’t be the first time she thought she was cursed.

.

.

.

_8 th of October _

As much as she had been looking forward to seeing the Science Museum, a week passed since its opening and she had not yet gotten the chance to see it. Fay hadn’t even spent that much time at the museum lately because most days it was swarming with people as they came to visit the new exhibits. That day Dana had given her off from the soup kitchen, worried over how pale and tired she’d looked so Fay had spent most of it in the attic reading and going over her notes for the journey in January, trying not to fall prey again to the insidious thoughts of what will happen to Bagheera if her health continued to deteriorate.

Damian texted her later in the afternoon asking her to meet him outside round six. Fay didn’t want to see him, nor travel wherever he intended for them to go because she felt weak, and she’d been crying all day and her marks were aching again. Bagheera insisted though, and it was only because of her guilt at causing him such concern that she got dressed and left the attic to wait for Damian.

At six sharp, Rodrigo arrived on the quieter street as she’d expected and after parking, he got out, greeted her with a curt nod and opened the back door. Damian was waiting for her inside, and she allowed Bagheera to climb in first, plopping himself on the leather seat across from the boy leaving her to sit on the same side as him. As spacious as the seat was, she still huddled close to the door, putting as much distance between them as possible.

He didn’t greet her or made small talk. He never did, and she felt grateful for that because she was not in the mood to talk either, keeping her gaze out the dark window and trying her best to ignore the prickling at the back of her head.

He was watching her.

The entire car ride was silent.

Fay stayed quiet even when she was surprised at finding themselves at the museum after hours. Damian led them to the third floor of the Arts and Antiquities building, where the glass suspended tunnel served as passage to the Science Museum. They were the only souls there at that time, save for the guards who paid them no mind. The buildings felt even bigger than usual without the streams of people and incessant chatter.

She’d only caught a glimpse of the Science Museum once before, when she’d helped some of the other volunteers carry boxes filled with promotional flyers and something called ‘swag bags’ to the other side of the tunnel, but she was familiar with the general layout of the building, having seen the blueprints many times over. 

The Science Museum could be accessed through the campus outside as well, and visitors had the choice of starting their visit from the ground floor then work their way up, but the third floor served as a middle point. The room was circular and tall, like a temple or a castle’s tower, and it was where the main entrance to the movie theatre was, capable of hosting approximately a hundred and twenty people. There were bathrooms, and a fountain and even benches for those who wanted to catch a break and use the holographic displays to learn about the history of Gotham and how the museums came to be, just like in the other museums. An arched opening across from the double doors of the theatre led into a transition gallery dedicated to Earth’s history, which the documentary in the movie theatre will be about as well, so it served as a continuation of that.

Past that the building spilled into a massive hall, stretching for five out of the six floors, and reminded her both of the open space of the mall and the architecture in her homeland. The g 

There were thirteen permanent galleries in total and a further four that were temporary with exhibits already planned for the six months to take place. Three different laboratories on the highest floor, that will be used primarily by academics from the University of Gotham but would also be open to visitors on specific days and times, for interactive activities and educational demonstrations of science experiments.

Damian told her that they could explore as they wished and left it at that.

Their interactions were generally strange, and most times they took unpredictable turns, but that evening had to be amongst top five. Fay had ended up removing her beanie and raincoat, shoving them inside her backpack as she walked around the rooms unfettered. It was like when she went at the Gotham Academy and they walked around for hours, enjoying the freedom of not having to explain themselves to nobody.

Energy, environment, medical arts, chemistry, space, and transport. Holographic presenters and reimagining of the most famous inventors appeared at the click of a few buttons; there were cases full of historical objects – real and fake, alike – as well as giant replicas of steams engines and cars and planes and rockets from different eras. Bagheera trailed behind her, giving her space when she’d zig-zag from one side to the other, while Damian walked after her with little enthusiasm, more preoccupied with his phone than the wealth of knowledge around him.

Of course, he was from that world so he probably didn’t find it quite as fascinating, and he was also ‘light-years ahead of other children’ as he’d put himself so perhaps the information in those rooms wasn’t anything he didn’t know already.

She didn’t care.

In those hours it was just her and that world which looked as if it had been squeezed into over twenty thousand square feet.

.

 _She was so childish and easily impressionable_ , Damian thought as he watched her from the corner of his eyes when she leaned over the balustrade to gaze down at the lower floors.

But she looked less miserable.

She’d been crying again, judging by how red-rimmed and puffy her eyes were when she’d gotten in the car. Her face looked gaunt; her wrists too thin. He caught the way her hands were shaking as she fidgeted with her sleeves and how she kept shifting uncomfortably in the seat, trying to rearrange her clothes as subtle as possible.

Not discreet enough for him, of course. Fay was in pain, or at the very least was experiencing psychical discomfort.

Was it phantom pain or old injuries? Maybe both. He didn’t have enough data, which was irritating. Pennyworth refused to tell him about any particular observations he’s made while treating her last time, pointing out that the information would violate patient-medic confidentiality and unless it posed a threat to her life, Damian could not be privy to it. The boy understood, but that didn’t mean he was happy about it or that he hadn’t been tempted to ask her himself.

He brought his eyes back to the phone when he saw her turn around and start walking in his direction where he was leaning against a pillar, the large dog sitting a few feet away watching her like a hawk. “I am going to the bathroom.’’ She announced softly to the dog, before turning away to follow the signs to the bathrooms located down a small walkaway between the galleries.

The beast was worried, Damian noted silently as he watched the dog’s fur rise slightly on its back and his temptation in following her, which he ultimately decided against.

.

Fay leaned back against the locked door of the toilet cubicle, listening to the water running at one of the sinks. She barely got the chance to turn on the faucet and rush into one of the stalls before her stomach lurched and she reflexively opened her mouth, regurgitating whatever little food was left in her body. Her legs buckled under her weight as light as it was, and she found herself sitting on the ground coughing harshly into a tissue she pulled out of the pack she now carried all the time with her.

The blinding migraine that assailed her was short-lived but felt like eons, and she squeezed her eyes shut, clutching her head. The pressure was so tight that she had to bite down on her lip to prevent herself from crying out loud because she was frightened and she wasn’t sure what was wrong with her and there was a part of her that thought she was dying.

It didn’t feel like the migraines she had whenever she overexerted her flux. 

It felt more as if something was…breaking. Psychically, not just mentally or emotionally. The bracelets scalded her wrists, and with unsteady feet, she pulled herself up, unlocked the bathroom door and rushed over to the sink, shoving her wrists underneath the cold water. That may have helped with her skin, but it did not help with the way her flux coiled painfully underneath her skin, threatening to burst out of the prison she’d put it in.

_It’s the bracelets._

They were making her ill, because they were no longer just a dampener for her volatile energy but…. something. Something toxic. The runes were affecting her flux in ways they shouldn’t have, and it was making her ill; it was like caging a dragon who until then had been reassured that albeit in a cell, there’d still be exits to take whenever he pleased. Her flux was that dragon.

That--- _that_ wasn’t supposed to happen. It was unnatural for her flux to be restrained in such a manner; it was a fundamental part of her. Locking it away entirely….it was inconceivable and that wasn’t what she had agreed to do when the bracelets were placed on her. As afraid as she had been of her own abilities, her flux was a part of her that she did not want to lose freedom of.

_Did…did uncle know this would happen? Is that why he said they were temporary?_

But he had explicitly told her that the bracelets were only there to teach her limitations, to control the flux when she failed to do so. They were meant to help her, and even if they crippled her in the sense that she did not have full access, the runes should not be…. Poisoning her.

She hadn’t even used her abilities and her health was already being affected. So, what would happen if she did need to use her flux to defend herself?

Will the bracelets kill her?

_He couldn’t have known._

_There is no way he could have known._

It was her fault she’d run away; that she was in that predicament where nobody could offer her answers or the necessary help.

With shaky hands she pulled out the cooling gel from her backpack and a fresh roll of gauze, using them to tend to her blistered wrists before pulling down the sleeves of her sweatshirt, glad she had worn the one where she could thread her thumbs through because she could keep her hands hidden from the knuckles up. The bracelets still felt warm, but the sensation was manageable, and she splashed cold water over her face, rinsing her mouth and taking a few breaths to steady herself.

When she came out, she found boy and paladin standing closer than before, each with their own tumultuous expressions. Damian looked angrier than he did worried, and Bagheera was tense, as if he was poised to attack. The type of threat she faced now, however, was not one he could deal with it.

Even she didn’t know how to deal with it.

“I, um…don’t feel well.’’ She admitted because there was no point denying it.

“Did you vomit?’’

She nodded.

“Have you been abiding by the food plan?’’

She hesitated. “I tried…but—um, I find it difficult. Because…it feels too much.’’ It wasn’t the food plan, though. If anything, it was that structured diet that kept her energy levels up.

Damian bristled. “I told you to let me know.’’

“I am sor—‘’

“Stop apologising.’’ He hissed. “Let’s go.’’

She didn’t move, continuing to lean against the door of the bathroom.

“I, um, I am not sure I can…’’

Damian sighed.

.

“This—this is really embarrassing.’’ Fay muttered out loud, trying to look anywhere but at him, which was hard giving they were practically glued to one another. “I mean…there was no need.’’

“You almost fell on your face and as entertaining that would have been to watch, I don’t have time for it.’’

Fay was suddenly self-conscious about her weight, how she smelt and even her heartbeat, beating a mile by the minute, which he had to be aware of, what with his hearing skills. Well, she couldn’t be blamed, could she? It wasn’t as if she wanted him to carry her, but she supposes it was a less humiliating position being on his back than in his arms. That image alone was threatening to give her a nosebleed all on its own, so she quickly pushed it away. Bagheera walked by their side, holding her backpack by the straps glancing at her every now and then as they backtracked their steps through the galleries to the circular hall they came from.

It wasn’t as if Damian was uncomfortable; he held her as if she weighed nothing and he was warm and well, he smelt rather good. His hands were firmly planted right above the back of her knees which was reasonable, but she still found the contact rather overwhelming and it had nothing to do with him. Her arms were loosely draped over his back, hands on his shoulders. Fay initially tried to avoid touching him as much as she could, but she was dizzy, so that plan quickly went out of the window.

At least he looked just as displeased by it as she felt humiliated.

Had he let her speak before demanding that she climb on his back, he would have found out that Bagheera could have also carried her.

Hm. Best not to poke the beast while she’s riding his back.

She’d also never tell Bagheera that being piggybacked by Damian felt rather nice.

.

“- _Tt_ -‘’

Alfred’s expression, to his credit, didn’t change when he saw Damian come out of the building with the girl on his back, who looked as if she was tethering on falling asleep at any moment. 

Interesting development.

“Soup kitchen, Pennyworth.’’ The boy said curtly, the gentle way he removed the girl from him a stark contrast with his irritated expression and tone. That night he was going for patrol, on a potential new lead for Wyatt so neither one of them had time to be at the penthouse; the manor was an option, but one that Damian did not seem to want to consider. 

_Not yet._ The butler thought it unwise to eliminate that scenario.

By the time they were back on Jubilee street, Fay was sleeping soundly.

Alfred didn’t comment when the boy pulled her out of the car and carried her himself up the fire staircase, to the third floor where presumably the attic entrance was. The large dog followed closely.

.

Fay was only vaguely aware of her shoes being removed and the duvet being pulled over her. In that state of semi-dreaming, her tired mind conjured an image of her mother tucking her in, after one of her ‘episodes’.

“Mother…’’ She mumbled. “It hurts again.’’

The voice that answered her sounded nothing like her mother, but her mind processed it as if it was anyway.

“What does?’’

“…. everything.’’ She sobbed. “Please…make it stop. I-I am really…tired.’’

_I miss you so much._

A wave of calmness and affection washed over her. Was it Bagheera? It had to be.

Mother was dead. She wasn’t there to make everything better.

Nobody could.

But someone did answer.

“That’s not…possible. However, nobody will hurt you ever again.’’

“Hm.’’ That’s a lie.

“Do…do you promise?’’ She asked the imaginary voice.

“You have my word.’’

Her parents said the same thing.

And then they were nothing. Dead. Gone. Dust.

But the voice was compelling, deceitful enough to make her want to believe those words.

So, she did.

Because it was all in her head anyway.

.

.

.

_13 th of October _

“Wilmot will need further help from all volunteers, particularly with the All Hallows Eve and Thanksgiving special events. I personally don’t care about either of them, but they are an important opportunity to garner more visitors.’’ Damian explained, after placing the leather folder in front of her. It wasn’t the same one as last time because she had it, tucked away in her backpack, but sense of déjà vu was strong.

Six more weeks. He wanted her to stay on six more weeks to complete tasks that barely warranted the additionally money he was offering her, that she now knew were being invented just to keep her busy.

Fay was tired of her muddled feelings and how they oscillated where it concerned him.

“Okay.’’

Fay wasn’t like other children.

She’d been feeling better lately, again; Damian had changed her food plan to include smaller, lighter portions and several times in the past week, he had her travel to the penthouse where Alfred put her on IV fluids. She only had two nose bleeds in a week, and her cough had subsidized. The marks still ached but the episodes were more manageable.

Fay doubted that improvement was permanent, so in planning her journey she’d started considering complications and risks they might face if she became unwell again. She had every intention to keep herself healthy, for Bagheera’s sake more than anything else, so she abided by the food plan religiously, increasing her intake of vitamins and proteins in addition to whatever Alfred had her own. Her body tended to burn through them faster than most people, even in that state. 

They had to go back home.

Or else.

She might die in that foreign world she hadn’t even had the chance to explore fully.

And Bagheera would be left all on his own.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I will not be updating for a week or two after this, as things are about to get more intense, action-packed if you will, from here on and I struggle more with writing scenes of that nature than I do with internal monologues. 
> 
> I am also trying to be less descriptive as you'll notice from latest chapters, focusing more on characters' reactions and how they interact with one another. I do enjoy world-building so there'll be plenty of that later. Maximum word count will be kept to approx 8-10K words per chapter 
> 
> Enjoy :)


	13. Of detective work, connections, and come full circle

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter represents a build-up to what's to come next, and as such may come across as passive but this fanfic was never meant to be just about Damian and Fay (although they are the main characters). It's about Gotham, and the Batfamily and the universe they live in general. It is also written with the purpose of addressing the subplot, Damian's investigation in the blackouts, filling in gaps. 
> 
> I hope you all enjoy.

_’Fate had a weird way of circling back over paths that were meant to cross.’’_

\- Gail McHugh.

.

.

.

_28 th of October _

It’s been three days already and no word from Damian -- Fay suspected something bad has happened.

Alfred contacted her the first day to inform her that Damian was unwell – the flu – and that he’ll not be available for several days as he needs his rest. She was not expected at the museum during that time, but if there was anything urgent, she should contact the butler directly. Fay had learned enough about Damian to know he was not the type of person to be taken down by the common flu, not in such a way that’d have him ‘resting’ for days. The only logical explanation was that he must’ve been injured while out as Robin. If he was on a mission out of Gotham, then he could have just told her he had gone a business trip which she was certain he’d done before.

Fay resigned herself to the concern she felt for his wellbeing, as only her paladin was privy to it. She contemplated sending a message to Damian, telling him she hoped he’d recover soon but after rewriting the text several times, she ultimately decided against it. It felt…too personal, as much as she did want to know if he was okay. He’d just berate her for being sentimental – _which she was_ – or might think she was being needy – _as others have_.

She’ll wait a couple more days, then she’ll contact Alfred and ask him if Damian was recovering well from the ‘flu’.

Had she been braver – like in the old days - she would have sent him a get-well hamper, complete with plush toys, because that would have been rather funny. She could imagine his expression right before he’d probably set them on fire and give her a lecture about it.

Hm. When was the last time she did something like that? Just for fun? She couldn’t remember.

It was her day off, so taking advantage of the lack of commitments, they left the warmth and comfort of the attic to head to the cybercafe a few streets down from the soup kitchen, to keep working on the details of their journey to Europe. They needed to be as prepared as possible in case she didn’t figure out where the seekers were by then – very likely by that point – as they’ll be travelling for days across the continent. 

Cybercafes weren’t particularly popular, but that worked in her favour because there’d hardly be any people there regardless of the day and time she went. The shop also operated until early evening so she could spend hours in there, making sure to order a beverage or a sandwich every hour or so, as the store’s policy dictated. There was a long line of desks with computers on them separated by panels to maintain privacy amongst its users, and Fay always took the one by the window with Bagheera sitting by her feet. With her journal and notes and various printed papers spread over the surface of the desk, she set herself to work, going over the journey from Gotham to England, United Kingdom.

After some research she’d decided that the Regina cruise ship was their best bet out of Gotham, and it’d cost her approximately three thousand dollars for two tickets, which she planned on buying by the end of the month. The earlier they left the more time they’ll have to explore Europe, so she looked at mid to end January for potential dates, before settling for 24th. The direct journey across the Atlantic, from Gotham to Southampton, England will take them seven nights, which was hardly an issue especially when considering the amenities available aboard.

She had two challenges to overcome first: one, paying for the tickets, and two, convincing Dana to accept the tickets and accompany them on the other side of the world. As far as it concerned the tickets, paying for them in cash was, unfortunately, not an option unless she had an adult accompanying her because it seemed her emancipated status was not valid overseas. It was dizzying reading about the different European laws on it, but from what she’s gauged so far, there were no guarantees she won’t be questioned about her status at the border, not to mention Dana would also find it very strange. Fay has never offered her surname to the woman so telling her it was Kipling shouldn’t be that much of an issue, but explaining how she got a court-manded emancipated status despite being only twelve-years old would rise questions she could not answer.

So, paying by card, then. Damian would be able to track the transaction though, and she didn’t trust he wouldn’t follow up on it. At that point, she did not know if he was monitoring still, but she had to err on the side of caution. The chances he’d discover about her planned journey were high and increasing the longer their arrangement went on for. Fay had considered telling him about her wish to travel to Europe, in a sort of ripping the band aid gesture, but ultimately decided against it. Damian might arrange their travel to the other continent and as incredibly useful that would be, there was no way they’d be free to explore. It could take weeks before – and if – they found the seekers, and then what? How would she explain it to him? As generous as he could be, he was not one to just leave things unquestioned like Dana.

There was a part of her that wondered if he’d help her if she were to tell him the truth. He was Robin, Batman’s partner. Meeting a creature from another world was not so uncommon in his line of work, was it? Not when his own partner was part of the Justice League which famously comprised of aliens and god-like warriors. Not when he, himself had been part of Teen Titans which according to Robby was not entirely made of humans or individuals from that world?

It was incredible how tempting that idea had become, as ridiculous as she found it initially.

 _But._ She was afraid. Once she told him, there was no going back and there’d be no escape if he decided not to help her. Fay wanted to believe he wouldn’t hurt her, but he was not the type of person that took well to being deceived, was he? And as a protector of that world his job was to investigate any anomalies.

Fay and Bagheera were such anomalies. She was a trespasser in that world, one that had accepted his money and false identity and had been hiding the fact that she knows about his secret.

They weren’t friends. They weren’t allies. He owed her nothing, and she doubted she could appeal to his emotions. 

With the cash and bank payments out of the window, there was only other choice. Have Dana purchase the tickets herself for all three. Fay was planning on telling her about the money that Damian’s been offering her and justifying the journey to Europe to a desire of finding a distant relative of her mother. She was at least seventy percent confident that the woman would accept if Fay laid out her reasoning in that manner.

Fay had agreed to go to Dana’s house for 31st of October, All Hallows Eve. It seemed Gotham was particularly dangerous on that night, so Dana had insisted for Fay, Bagheera and the strays to stay with her, just in case. Her apartment block was not immune to Gotham’s inclination to chaos, but it was in a relatively good area that hadn’t experienced many issues in the past. She’d talk to Dana then, and she’ll also give her the money which Fay had already cashed out and placed in a plastic envelope.

Assuming Dana agreed, they’d leave Gotham on 24th of January and arrive in England on 31st.

Fay bought travel guides and filled them with notes and additional information that she printed out at the cybercafe, creating contingency plans, and coming up with different safe routes. She was not a natural strategist like her father or brave like her mother, but even a fool who prepared had better chances of winning than someone who didn’t.

.

Several hours into having sat down at the cybercafe, Fay was on her third hot chocolate and second muffin. Had Damian been there, he’d have certainly criticised the amount of sugar she was eating. _I shouldn’t care about what he thinks._ She shook her head to herself, as she flipped to a clean page in her notebook, which was already three quarters completed. Fay felt quite satisfied with the progress she was making.

As the royal ship would leave them in England, she’d planned for them to spend at least three weeks in that country with most of that time in the capital which had been a former destination for seeker and it was also where Daphne was located. If that location proved fruitless, they’d cross into France to travel to Paris and if needed, from there through Bruges, Amsterdam, and Berlin. If needed, they’d move back south towards Spain. Fay was looking forward to visiting all those locations, but she would have preferred they did so under different circumstances and that that once on European soil, she’d be able to piece everything together. When arriving in that world, she had expected to land in Italy which would be the next destination after Spain.

The passage from England to France will be tricky but she’d settled that their best option was the ferry from Dover to Callais. Dogs were not allowed on board except for the one ferry from Newhaven, England but as a child, she’d not be able to purchase tickets for herself and Bagheera anyway, so it looks like they were going to cross the broader illicitly, aboard one of the many large goods vehicle leaving the country. They’d not have many legal ways they could travel in Europe primarily due to her underage status, but she jotted down details of several different routes from each destination to another, as well as possible accommodations they could seek. Wilderness was her first choice – if they travelled through the forests, it might take longer but they wouldn’t have to worry about being questioned. Fay was perfectly capable navigating and surviving in the wilderness, and her paladin would certainly welcome the change in scenery – they both grew up in the jungles of Maysoon, after all and European forests, while she’d not consider them safe, would never measure to their homeland.

She’d lie if she said she wasn’t becoming enthusiastic at the idea of connecting with nature again, of living off the land, away from the urban pollution and noise. The obstacles they were going to face would be worth it. But she did lie to herself when she thought that maybe, _just maybe_ being in the wild again would do good to her body, would reverse whatever was happening to her.

Fay was researching Germany and the best route from Berlin to Spain when a webpage manifested itself into a separate tab. She was ready to close it assuming it was just another advertisement page – incredible how many of them there were – when she realized it was a news website. Reading briefly through the page, she found it was the largest of its kind across Europe that catered to English-speakers news from all around that continent.

The headline on that page, large and in bold screamed ‘ _Former flame of art collector Von Richter breaks silence two years after his mysterious disappearance.’_ Not particularly interested in that type of information, she closed the page and resumed her research. A few minutes later while scrolling down on another webpage, reading her way through the myths and legends associated with the Black Forest, another article from the same news outlet popped up again. Same headline.

 _How annoying._ Perhaps there was something on the other websites that kept linking her to that type of sensationalist articles. Von Richter was a German name, wasn’t it? So perhaps that’s why. Feeling slightly restless after sitting for so long, she decided she might as well take a break. It wouldn’t hurt learning more about real time issues that the world concerned itself with, and seeing as she did not own a TV, an online newspaper might be a good substitute.

As it turns out Von Richter’s death and his ‘former flame’s’ appearance in public was of particular interest, and not just in Germany. Once she clicked on one article, she found it difficult to stop reading, part out of interest and part of out of boredom.

Bruno Von Richter. Art collector and dealer, philanthropist, archaeologist, historian, writer, owner of several successful businesses in Europe and Asia. A contemporary adventurer, several past articles labelled him. Richter had already been rich to begin with, coming from a wealthy family, but he had raised to fame for his expeditions across the world in search of lost art and obscure relics of long-forgotten civilisations. Further intrigued by that aspect of his career, Fay spent over twenty minutes reading about his ventures and accomplishments.

Richter had been deemed eccentric and borderline mad at the turn of the century when he experienced the peak of fame, after his peregrinations became shrouded in mystery. After 2004, he stopped publishing books on his travels, and he started going away on long journeys with little or no team to support him or document his discoveries. He remained an active member of the art community, buying and selling various art pieces, however but he stopped talking about how he acquired them.

He had been in Gotham, too, for various high-profile auctions. Shortly before his death, two years earlier, he had, in fact, come to that part of the world eager to purchase a series of paintings whose origin remained unclear. Perhaps a private collection. The Gotham tabloids did mention his presence in the city, but they paid more attention to his generous donation to the museums. When Fay had a look at the items he’d donated, she realised that she was familiar with some of them – she’d seen them displayed in the Arts and Antiquities building.

Huh. Small world.

Ultimately, she went back to the original article, to get a better look at his so-called ‘former flame’.

Daphne Barlowe. Sixty-seven-year-old, world-renowned psychologist and professor emeritus of Oxford University, in England. A beautiful woman, she looked at least a decade younger than her actual age and incredibly private woman, who rarely ever makes public appearances. Whenever she did, Daphne refused to be photographed. In the article Fay was looking at she had been photographed while outside and looked as if she had been approached by multiple journalists judging by the many microphones being pushed in her direction. White hair was intricately coiffed at the back of her head, and she had pale skin, silvery-blue eyes. Striking. She dressed in taste, in monochromatic elegant clothes and she had a confident stance, although she looked rather contrite at being approached in that manner.

The newspaper made it seem as if she’d revealed ground-breaking information about Richter when in reality she appeared to have only provided a statement on her choice to visit his grave in person, two years later, although she never attended his funeral.

If Richter was eccentric and enjoyed the attention of public, Barlowe seemed to be completely the opposite, and maybe that’s why the media was having a fit over having her out in public. The two met when they were young, as college students in London and it was unclear how long they were together for, but most newspapers gave them at least ten years together. Daphne married someone else, and Barlowe started frequenting several different women over the years, becoming a sought-after bachelor. They remained close friends, ‘close sources’ mentioned, having helped and encouraged each other in their respective careers. Not much else was known. Some had speculated they were to be married but it was unclear who broke it off if that had been true; there were different theories which Fay wasn’t particularly interested in.

What she found interesting however, was that Daphne Barlowe grew more and more secluded from the public life although her work in the field of psychology continued, and she became critically acclaimed, earning honorary degrees from various universities across the world. She had been a professor at the Oxford University for over twenty years. A significant portion of her research was centred on psychological traumas, but her publications covered a wider range of topics from the impact of childhood abuse on an individual’s psyche to the cultural and social impact on mental health.

Although those topics hit close to home, Fay looked up some of her books, because she would have liked to read them still. In doing so, her attention was caught by an article that mentioned Daphne’s background remained a mystery, even more so after her last interview ever made face to face, in 1983. Curious, Fay clicked on the link in the article which took her to an online video-sharing platform, to a footage which had a rather poor image quality.

After wiping them down, Fay used the flimsy public headphones on her desk to listen to the audio, unsurprisingly just as of poor quality as the rest of the video.

The interview was a little over seven minutes long and almost from the start the conversation made Fay cringe. Daphne, barely thirty in that year looked even more striking at that age: her hair, a pale blonde framed her delicate features and accentuated her pale complexion. She had a cold, almost ethereal beauty which the interviewer felt the need to comment on several times, with crass, inappropriate remarks such as when he asked whether she was worried men might think she would be able to warm their beds at all given her looks. Fay imagined her mother sitting in that chair and the chaos that would have ensued had she been talked like that to, but different worlds, different times, different women. Daphne maintained her composure throughout the interview, batting off comments with grace while offering a cordial smile throughout. It never reached her eyes, though.

The televised interview was supposedly about her work as a psychologist and what it’s like to be a woman in a field ‘made for men’ as that’s how psychology was seen back then. Daphne had clearly managed to surpass those barriers to become the woman she was now. Very few of the interviewer’s questions were centred on her research, as he seemed more interested in her personal life, interspersing his questions with backhanded comments about how a woman her age had chosen not to settle down, get married and have children. He kept interrupting Daphne or speaking over her whenever she tried to change the subject away from prying topics. The entire interview took a turn for the worse when he mentioned ‘the audience is keen to know whether the rumours are true’.

Said rumours being that Daphne had slept with Henry Reid, a sociology professor at the University of London, who took her under his wing when she was in her teenage years. The interviewer boldly implied that Henry was a man in his forties who would have been easily swayed by her beauty, even at sixteen years old, and it had been nothing but advantageous for her to be adopted into his family as she benefitted from fee remission at the University – although she ultimately attended Oxford, so that was a moot accusation – and was even left with a sizeable inheritance upon his death.

It was the first time throughout the video that the woman’s calm demeanour cracked; something in her expression darkened and her lips thinned in contempt. She politely asked the interviewer to change the question as she’d rather not discuss her personal life further, but the man was relentless, looking amused and unsympathetic that he was violating her privacy, even going as far as insinuating that her silence was perhaps a confirmation the rumours were true.

Daphne was dressed simple, in a long-sleeved wool jumper and a long skirt, with gloves and a scarf around her neck, which fit the rest of her ensemble well but also left no inch of her skin exposed. When the discussion became more heated the more the interviewer pressed on, the woman had started tugging at the dark scarf, revealing something on the left-hand side of pale column of her neck.

Fay frowned, alarm bells going in her head.

_It can’t be._

She replayed the part where her scarf moved ever so slightly away from her neck, but she couldn’t see clearly what the mark was. She paid little attention to the rest of the interview, eyes trained on the woman’s neck but even when Daphne abruptly stood up from her chair and walked away from the interviewer, Fay was not able to get a good look.

With an increasing sense of trepidation, Fay searched more photos on Daphne Barlowe. The few that she did find were blurry or taken from afar, or Daphne found ways to hide herself from the camera. She always wore a scarf, or a high collar, or some sort of neck cover. Even when she failed to deter photographers from getting a close shot, her neck remained hidden.

It couldn’t be a coincidence.

There was a picture of her and Bruno Von Richter, in their mid-twenties, at what looked like a formal event given the elegant clothes they were wearing. Daphne looked like a princess in the dazzling navy gown she was wearing. White fur was draped strategically over one shoulder, shielding that side of her neck although her long hair did the job either way so…. she must have really wanted to ensure that nobody would see that part of her skin. The dress was long-sleeved, and she wore gloves again.

_I must be wrong._

She wasn’t.

After almost fifteen minutes of perusing articles, forums, and academic publications she finally found a picture that confirmed her suspicions. The picture had been used on the back cover of one of the early editions of Daphne’s first published book, and it was being sold as an used item on an online sales website. Fay had to zoom in to see it clearly, and even though the damn scarf was present as usual, it had failed to cover the mark entirely. Daphne, looking as young as she did in the interview, posed up-close to the camera, sitting in a chair, and gazing in the distance. It was a flattering photo of her profile, but Fay suspected the reason why that edition was so rare. 

Daphne’s neck was exposed halfway through, and Fay stared at the scarred flesh with a frown, the hot chocolate and brownie threatening to leave her stomach the way they came in. Alerted by the sudden change in her mood, Bagheera raised into a sitting position which was enough to bring his head above the line of the desk.

“Bag…is that what I think it is?’’ She murmured keeping her eyes trained on the zoomed view of the woman’s neck.

He growled softly.

The scar was not random, and the pattern could not have been replicated by any objects in that world as far as she knew. Because it wasn’t meant to exist there, just as Daphne wasn’t.

Just as Fay and Bag weren’t meant to be there.

The scar was the mark of a ‘ _sullied_ ’, indicating a fallen clan member. If her pale features were indicative of her clan, then there were only a few that Fay knew of that practiced the tradition of branding their own members like that. The reasons could vary from being second born to having been defeated in a battle or ashamed the family in one way or another. Such practices had been gradually abolished as the revolutions spread like wildfire, decades earlier. The interviewer mentioned Daphne was taken in by Henry Reid at the age of sixteen, so she must’ve been in that world for at least five decades – that meant she would have still been born in era when such practices were not questioned as heavily as they were in present times.

_Why?_

_Did she run away after being marked?_

_Why did she stay though?_

Maybe she couldn’t find a way back or feared retaliation? Or perhaps she’s simply grown accustomed to her life there, given her rise to fame and clear passion for the field of psychology.

Daphne Barlowe was from her world.

Once she had processed that and gotten over the initial shock Fay told herself that she shouldn’t have been that taken back. It was naïve to think that only seekers travelled to that world. Her, being a prime example, although the journey had been unpredictable and almost cost them their lives. Her mother was another good example of someone who had discovered ways of travelling to that world during times it was prohibited or thought to be impossible. She hadn’t been first either.

Daphne – _a false name?_ – had clearly built a life for herself there, and if the mark on her neck was any indication, she had left a much worse fate behind.

Greedy to find out more about her – how could she not – Fay started researching Henry Reid further. He had served as a professor of sociology at the University of London for decades, before dying peacefully in his sleep of a heart attack at only forty-nine years old, eight years after he adopted Daphne into his family. She had changed her name soon after she and Bruno Von Richter departed ways when they were both in their late twenties, maybe an attempt on her end to start fresh given the amount of sexism and rumours she’d faced.

Henry’s actual daughter was around the same age as Daphne, but Fay could not find much on her. One article speculating Daphne and Von Richter’s engagement mentioned that she was estranged from the Reid family, having been barely in touch with her foster sister who relocated to the States.

In Gotham. 

For decades she worked as a mentor for young juvenile offenders, after ten years as a social worker. Her husband, whose surname she adopted, was American, and they relocated to Gotham from Syracuse, New York State in the past decade or so, where she carried her work as part of a juvenile mentoring program that she dedicated most of her life to. Her husband died three years earlier, but she continued her work with just as much passion. Fay knew that because as soon as she searched for the woman’s name in Gotham, the page was flooded with results.

Hannah Walker, nee Reid, was dead. Murdered weeks earlier in her apartment, shot in the head by a pair of burglars that were never identified. A senseless death the newspapers called it; her apartment had been ransacked and her car was stolen. Days later, one of the culprits had found himself in a vegetative state, after being beaten within an inch of his life. He’ll never walk again and if he does wake up, he was unlikely to regain full cerebral function. 

He wasn’t in any state to be sentenced to prison, but it would have been a lesser punishment if he had. Fay felt no sense of sympathy for him.

Although a tabloid or two acknowledged Hannah as being Daphne’s foster sister, there was no real information beyond that. In general, it had seemed that Hannah did not have many relatives left, and none of them lived on that side of the world and her husband’s lineage died with him. They had no children. Fay did find an outpour of heartfelt comments from dozens if not hundreds of individuals who had worked with Hannah throughout her lifetime; children that grew up to be stable, functioning adults all thanks to her mentorship. She had been particularly popular with communities of Syracuse where she’d spent approximately thirty years although she had lived in other cities across the country. The ‘Rise up’ foundation in Gotham also praised the positive impact of her work and her efforts at introducing new initiatives to help juvenile offenders.

It was unfair, of course. That a woman like her, who dedicated her life to helping others died in such a manner. It really was a senseless death.

Then again, Fay was no stranger to senseless deaths, so perhaps she was far too jaded to summon any sentiment of shock. Her heart ached of course, because reading about Hannah Walker reminded her all too well of how many other good people have been lost _that_ night.

Death does not discriminate between good or bad people, not really. And neither does cruelty or greed. 

Fay wondered if Daphne mourned her foster sister, if she had already realised that world was not much that different from theirs when it came to experiencing loss and grief. There was no mention of Daphne attending Hannah’s walker which otherwise attracted dozens of visitors. There was one family that was affected by her death – the Sanders family. Michael Sanders’ son, George, was a former juvenile offender that Hannah mentored for years and helped turn his life around according to his father’s words.

George Sanders went missing on 14th of May. He was only twenty-two, and a college student at the University of Gotham, close to obtaining his business management degree. He worked as an administration assistant at the Aceline Auction House. Some newspapers were eager to link his disappearance to an alleged theft of a painting that took place in that same week he disappeared. The auction house director, Edward Edelstein made no official comments on that, nor he was able to divulge details on the painting itself, citing that the seller wished to have his privacy respected. Yet it was an ‘inside source’ from the auction house that leaked to the press that the item went missing the same time George did.

His family was devastated of course as George never came home nor was tracked down by law enforcement. Fay found little information on the search conducted for him past June, just the occasional mention that neither he or the painting had been found and the police remained eluded on his whereabouts, while his family – unsurprisingly aided by one Hannah Walker – increased their efforts of trying to find him leading search parties of their own.

If it hadn’t been for the missing painting tied to his disappearance, Fay doubted George would have even gotten that much publicity in the first place. Gotham was the type of place where people died and went missing rather often, was it not?

Fay had been taught to look for patterns and connections, to pay attention to details as much as to the bigger picture, and while she did not inherit most of her parent’s natural talents, she was good at research. She enjoyed it. It gave her a purpose and it made her mind stay far from darker territories, even if discovering Daphne Barlowe’s existence had rattled her. That woman was the first real – flesh and bone and breathing – connection to their world. Fay doubted the woman would help them, even if she did have any ties left to their world but knowing there was someone else than her in that realm made her heart feel lighter. At the very least, maybe Daphne would want to talk to Fay – tell her of how she got there, if she knew a way back.

Fay had no way of contacting her because the woman was practically a recluse, and even if she did use her professional contact, it wasn’t as if she could just write a message saying ‘ _hey, I am from your world, want to be friends?_ ’. If Daphne had laid roots in that world, she might not even want to acknowledge whom she had been in a previous life, so for the time being Fay didn’t think it was a good idea to contact her just yet. Maybe when they arrived in England where the woman allegedly lived and still conducted lectures at the academic institutions there.

But Hannah Walker had lived in Gotham which meant there was tie to Daphne right in that city.

Hm.

What were the odds?

.

_29 th of October _

The constant drizzle outside turned into nothing short of a gale almost as soon as they down in the soup kitchen that morning, and she and Bag sat in a corner, enjoying the warmth and the scents of food and sound of chatter coming from the canteen which she had grown so accustomed to that she now found comforting. It was a busy day, but Mack had been well prepared, so he largely busied himself with passing fresh containers through the pass through while Robby washed dishes and cleaned. Dana had several volunteers helping her upfront, so it was a relatively good day for everyone.

Fay admired how conscientious Robby was, always helping in the soup kitchen several times a week even if he had so much other work to do outside of it: a part-time job, online courses he signed up for to increase his chances of a scholarship and still finding time for his friends. She thought he’d make a good veterinarian given both his work ethic and his love for animals.

“Whoa.’’ He said as his sweeping of the floor brought him near her, and he peered down at the papers and notes in her lap. “Please tell me you’re not up to solving crimes now.’’ He joked lightly.

She shook her head. Hannah Walker’s death bothered her, so she had been mulling over it since the previous day. 

“Oh. George Walker, huh?’’

She looked up at him curiously. “…do you know him?’’

Robby shrugged. “Not personally, no. But his sister used to be in my class. We never talked much but she is _really_ nice.’’ He said with a dreamy expression before shaking his head as if to banish away whatever he was reminiscing. With a more serious look he glanced at the picture of George Sanders in one of the articles she printed out. “She was meant to be in my grade this year but had barely shown up since school started. It’s just her and her dad, and from what I’ve heard, he’s not doing very well.’’

Understandable.

“But---but they don’t know where he is still?’’ She asked quietly. “Or why he disappeared?’’

“Nope. There are all kinds of rumours. Nasty ones, too, because of some issues he had a few years ago. Vandalism, used to get in fights a lot, and he got caught shoplifting as well. It was Mrs. Walker—‘’ He pointed at one of her other papers which had a picture of the deceased mentor. “—who straightened him out. He went to Gotham University, and I can’t remember the course he got in, but it was apparently not easy to get into.’’

“Business…. management?’’

“Yeah, yeah. That’s it. Business management. Gotham University offers some of the best courses on this side of country in business, so the program is pretty competitive.’’

She looked at him curiously. “How---do you know so much about him?’’

The boy’s cheeks reddened so quickly that he could have rivalled her own moments of embarrassment.

“I, um, well…he was Julie’s brother so---‘’ He shrugged. “You know. People talk.’’ He finished casually although Fay believed none of his nonchalance.

“He obsessed over her for years.’’ Mack piped up from across the kitchen with a wicked grin. “Seriously, the kid was this close to stalking the poor girl.’’ He teased, wiggling his brows at Robby who hardly had an inch of his face, neck or ears that wasn’t beet red. “Mack! Don’t tell her that, that’s not true!’’ The boy’s voice was suspiciously high to, and Fay’s lips twitched in amusement. Robby threw a withering look at the cook who just laughed and turned his attention back to the large pot of gumbo he was preparing.

“I wasn’t stalking her. People talk and-and –Julie was popular and everyone knew----okay, maybe I liked her a little bit--’’ Robby defended himself – _too_ \- quickly, and Fay bit on the inside of her cheek to stop herself from smiling because the more he tried to explain himself, the guiltier he looked. For once she was not the one who was floundering for words.

“Okay.’’ She nodded, for his own benefit. “I believe you.’’

He sighed and brushed a hand through his sandy blond hair, same shade as his mother’s. His blue eyes, perhaps from his father? He didn’t look much like Dana, for that matter, except they both held cutlery and pens in the same way, she had noticed over the weeks. There were other similarities too, in their mannerisms but psychically, he must have taken after his father. She didn’t know much about him other that Robert Mercher died when Robby – Robert Junior – was around one year old.

It was a sensitive topic, so she’d never broach it, although it explained why Dana was so careful with Fay’s own boundaries.

“Anyways,’’ Robby cleared his throat, still looking flustered. “George was pretty well known in high school. I didn’t meet him personally, but I heard he used to skip classes a lot to hang out with older boys who were into some hardcore stuff. I only saw him a few times when he used to pick up Julie from school---we sometimes studied together.’’

“One of the articles says that he ran away because he…. stole something?’’

“Yeah, maybe.’’ Robby shrugged. “But Julie— ‘’ Fay saw Mack wiggle his eyebrows at them again, but Robby’s back was turned to him, so the boy didn’t see him. Her lips twitched again but she suppressed the smile. “---she got a lot of crap for it at school. People saying that her brother stole the painting because they’re poor and all that kind of bullshit. She had to miss most classes at the end of last year because of it.’’

Bullies. Of course.

“What…about the police? Or um, Batman and…. the others.’’ Somehow referring to Damian as Robin felt strange, even if she had already accepted the association between the two. Fay didn’t really know him as the ‘Boy Wonder’, aside from their brief, muddled encounter in that building; even as Damian Wayne, she didn’t think of him as the heir of Bruce Wayne most days. He was just the – tyrannical, maniac, unpredictable, kind, aggressive, arrogant – boy with green eyes. A dangerous, hidden threat that forced her to go shopping and eat better and ordered her around as if she was his lackey and made fun of her emotional nature and was kind in dizzying, unexpected ways.

If he was that confusing as just Damian Wayne, she wasn’t sure if she wanted to know more about his Robin persona.

“No clue. The police would probably not get involved. I heard this owner of the private collection is very rich, although nobody knows who he is. And—‘’ He shrugged again. “Maybe he did just leave town. Not all crimes get solved, given how many they are. Or maybe they already found him and he’s in some sort of witness protection. Who knows?’’ He sighed. “But Julia has set up this amazing forum where people can post stuff--’’

Fay looked at him pointedly. So did Mack and Bagheera, for that matter.

“I am not stalking her, I _swear_!’’

.

A lease agreement does not terminate automatically with a tenant’s death. It depends of course on the type of the contract the tenant had signed when – and if - the property could be reclaimed by the building owner, but the condominium that Hannah Walker used to live, very few apartments were rented. Most were owned. It was a generally good area to live in, according to her research and the accommodations there seemed to reflect that. Even more reason why Hannah’s death came as such a shock to the inhabitants of that building – there haven’t been many burglaries in that area in recent years and none had certainly ended in the death of a loved member of community.

It had been more difficult to access Hannah’s apartment than it had been to sneak in after the group of thieves weeks earlier because there was a secured entry system which required tenants to carry special keys, and any visitors to request access via the intercom at the entrance. Fay had no information of any people that lived in that building aside from Hannah so she could lie her way inside so in the end she and Bag had waited a couple of hours until she saw an opportunity for access. It was a delivery man in the end who made it possible for her to enter, when she sneaked past the entrance with him after he was buzzed in. Bagheera had to stay outside, hidden because he attracted far too much attention, but she’d told the carrier that she was there to visit her grandmother and had lost her key. He didn’t pay much attention to that.

With her hood on, she sneaked to the first floor, thinking about how that was the third time in as many months that she was sneaking into a building. Really, in a way that was still training. There were no cameras thankfully, but she had to avoid other inhabitants because unlike last time, Fay had a feeling the inhabitants there wouldn’t leave her go unquestioned. They had their security breached not too long ago, so they were bound to treat anyone with suspicion.

Hannah Walker’s apartment door looked innocuous, as if a murder hadn’t even taken place there and she fiddled with the lock several minutes longer than she probably should have, but hey, it was a different world and she wasn’t a master at lock picking. Once she was inside, she made sure to lock the door behind her, before carefully examining her surroundings. The hall was in semi-darkness as she stepped through it, finding the living room to her right and the kitchen to her left. There were other doors down the hall, but she stepped to the left, gazing around the spacious room.

There was a strong chemical scent that permeated in the air – _sodium hypochlorite?_ The wooden floor was barren, and she stared at the spot near the armchair in a corner where she knew Hannah Walker took her last breaths. The carpet must have been removed because of the blood, and the apartment cleaned of any traces of the murder that took place. Hannah Walker did not have any relatives on that side of the country, and the ones she did have in England must have not decided yet what to do with the apartment yet. It was left largely untouched judging by the layers of dust that was gathering on the furniture and items sat atop of them.

Carefully as to not disturb anything, Fay looked around the room – inspecting the small shelves of books, various collections – timbers, coins, porcelain figures – before stopping in front of the wall to her right. There was a massive corkboard mounted on it filled with what must have been easily over two hundred photos of different people, cards – store bought and handmade -, certificates and other paper awards celebrating a wide variety of milestones like ‘Valedictorian of 2006 class’. Fay licked her dry lips, heart twinging at the sight of that wall. Hannah had created a makeshift memorial of all the people she had encountered throughout her career, those whom she must have successfully mentored to a better life judging by all the warm wishes and thank you’s on the cards.

She wondered if the burglars saw it too, if they felt any remorse at any point upon seeing the type of person the woman’s whose life they ended was.

Maybe. Or maybe not. Not everyone finds it in themselves to realise the error of their ways, after all.

Fay found flyers too, scattered on the round table near that wall and they were all centred around the disappearance of George Sanders, but when she looked through them, she could not find anything of interested. On a shelf mounted on the wall she found several frames – Hannah with Henry Jackson when she looked no older than five or six, with both her father and who must have been her mother around ten years of age. Hannah with her husband, Paul on their wedding day – she looked beautiful – and several other pictures of them that spoke of a happy marriage, because they never stopped smiling as the grew older with each picture she looked at.

Fay found a photo album filled with photos that just continued and added to the stories that the ones on the shelves started. There was only one picture of Daphne Barlowe, tucked at the end of the album in an envelope, whether to hide it or preserve it better, Fay didn’t know. Hannah was in that photo too. Both women looked in their early twenties, and their arms were around each other, as they stood down on a blanket in what seemed to be the middle of a picnic. Daphne too, was smiling although not quite as unreservedly as her companion but she looked…relaxed, content. Happier than in any the pictures Fay found of her in her research. They have must have been close then, but maybe there was a reason why that frame was pushed behind all the others.

There were a few words scrawled on the back, ‘ _My sister, Daphne.’_ Fay tried not to think about the vortex of emotions building in her chest when she thought who they reminded her of and instead continued her scrutiny of the apartment. Forty minutes later, she found nothing in the other rooms and had backtracked to the living room, staring at the board again, feeling suddenly drained and disillusioned. She wasn’t sure for how long she stared at the board, but she was about to leave when one of the pinned items caught her attention. It was a ‘ _Mother’s day_ ’ postcard, pinned to the far bottom left, and partially covered by other cards and photos.

 _But Hannah didn’t have any children, though._ Maybe one of the students was particularly close? Curious, she unpinned it to take a closer look. It was a handmade folded card, with clumsy, rudimentary but colourful flowers drawn on the front. The handwriting was too, rather messy, big bold letters saying ‘Happy Mother’s Day’ each letter a different colour. When she opened it, she found the same messy, scrawled writing inside – a child wishing their mother a ‘super-duper-best’ day and informing her that ‘she was the best mum ever’. Fay would have mused more on that message except the text on the other side of the card caught her attention. The writing belonged to an adult though – the spaces between the letters – smaller too – was tighter and the author had pressed so hard on their pen that the back of the card was ridged, following the pattern of the text.

_‘Slush puppie, Tilt ‘n ‘Spin.’_

There were initials pressed just as hard underneath that short message

G.S.

George Sanders.

It was lead. It had to be.

But what the hell is _a slush puppie?_

.

As it turns out it’s a frozen beverage, mostly ice and flavoured syrup that came in different colours, including red. Robby told her the green was the best. She’d have to take his word for it because she wouldn’t know any better. He was also the one who told her that ‘Tilt ‘n ‘Spin’ was a former entertainment complex where people could go roller skating, but there had been a food court and arcade games as well. A popular place until five years earlier when it closed due to criminal activity in the area deterring people from attending.

Again, she’d have to take his word when he mentioned it was a ‘ _pretty lit place_ ’ because she had no idea what that meant but judging by the enthusiasm on his face, it had to be a positive thing. She didn’t understand how something could be ‘cool’ and ‘lit’ at the same place, but she’d figured it was just colloquialisms of that world that she had yet to learn in more depth. The only other person in her age bracket was Damian, and he hardly spoke like a child. She couldn’t imagine him use any of the slang words that Robby did, but the mental image did amuse her slightly.

A lead is a lead, though.

Not once did she consider not following it.

Perhaps all hope was not lost for her.

.

.

.

_31st of October_

Fay may not have inherited her father’s tactical genius or her mother’s quick mind and while there were days when she struggled to think of herself anything than a loser, she knew she wasn’t stupid. Not all the time anyway. Unburdened by expectations and constant reminders of who she was measured against, the research-turned-investigation felt rather stimulating, and it filled her with a lost sense of adventure. She wouldn’t dare say she felt braver, but she did feel more like her old self, the Fay of before. The one who used to spend days thinking about the adventures she’d like to pursue, the one who immersed herself in scavenger hunts organised by her parents which were far more exciting than any of the masters’ tests.

And if she suspected that Damian was tracking her using the phone was not because she was particularly sharp, but because it’s been bred into her to be alert about potential tracking and spying tactics employed by others, as much as she’d been tentatively trained in learning how to rely on those tactics herself (she did not have much experience in that area, though).

So, she hadn’t been carrying the phone when breaking into Hannah Walker’s apartment, just as she wasn’t when she and Bagheera headed to the ‘Tilt ‘n Spin’ building. 

It wasn’t just the former rink roller that was abandoned – the entire street was. It wasn’t empty, homeless women and men huddled in makeshift tents or huddled around fires trying to keep themselves warm in the cold autumn weather. The wind was particularly chilly that day, biting at any inch of exposed skin so she had wrapped herself in several layers, scarf tightly wrapped around her neck, working in tandem with her beanie to keep her face warm. She had started feeling unusually susceptible to cold, lately, which she tried to chalk up to her having been raised in a warm environment, but she knew better. It was the bracelets again.

Keeping close to her paladin, nobody dared approach them as they walked down the street. The rink roller was built inside a brick and mortar warehouse and there was nothing about it that inspired Fay to think it was a safe place despite its persisting resistance against time, neglect, and the natural elements. Bagheera sensed no danger, so after looking around the dilapidated building, they went through the main entrance which formerly might have been painted red, but now the splintered door was a bare tarp. When inside, they left footsteps in the sheet of dust that gathered on the rotting wooden floors, boards creaking in protest under their weight. They were quiet, but even the slightest rustle or heavier step echoed through that dark chamber, up to the sagging roof above their heads. The dust-coated windows lining the upper part of the walls no longer sufficed to beckon whatever autumn light there was, but instead only added to the growing sense of gloom. She grimaced at the clogging odour of damp and rotting wood, but they persisted.

Flashlight in hand, they walked around the large rink roller, a circular space that took the better part of the room and was now inhabited by vagrants seeking shelter from the unforgiving weather. There were abandoned tables and chairs, and just like Robby said, a food hall carved in one side of the building along with several arcade machines that sat there, dilapidated, untouched for years.

Stopping in front of the former concession stand, she used the flashlight to peruse over various items – popcorn stand, plastic, scratched displays, abandoned promotional merchandise -, finding the triple ‘Slush Machine’ sitting towards the end of the counters propped against the wall. They were empty, of course and the plastic holding tanks were cracked, nozzles missing for the first two.

Fay stepped behind the concession stand, approaching the machine to take a closer look. If George had hidden something in it, there were not many the places he could have done so. With the flashlight in her mouth, she tested the machine to see if there were any parts coming apart, potentially revealing a hiding spot, heart starting to pump faster with a mix of wariness and…well, maybe a sense of excitement. How long had it been since she’d been on a hunt for clues to solve a mystery? 

Too long and too painful to think about.

And her thoughts did not get a chance to spiral down to unpleasant territory because she found something in the third tank. Or rather, the drip tray of that tank. Pulling out the tray towards her, she removed the plastic grill and saw there was small dark device. An USB flash drive. She’d seen Dana use one many times, and Robby also had one attached to the ring of keys. A data storage device.

George Sanders had reached out to Hannah Walker and left her a clue. She died, and he was still missing but the USB was left behind so it was safe to assume Hannah never had a chance to follow George’s lead. In that moment, she did not believe in coincidences, so she didn’t think it was one that Hannah died. Whoever killed her must have been looking for George and that flash drive.

The logical next step would be to reach out to the police or Damian for help; what was a disappearance and a botched robbery was turning into something far bigger and Fay doubted law enforcement was aware of it. It was only practical for her to take a step back from that point onwards because she’d satisfied her curiosity, followed the clues, and found the ‘prize’. It wasn’t any of her business what kind of business George was involved in that forced him to make a run for it, hide information in an abandoned building and inadvertently getting Hannah killed. Plus, what could she possibly do if she found out who was responsible for everything? Go after them in the state she was? It would be reckless and stupid.

But that never stopped her before.

.

.

.

She should have known it wasn’t going to end well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next update will be in approximately a week. In the meantime, I will be re-reading through the entire work so far to address any grammar errors. Any changes to the plot - expected to be minor if there are any - will be announced at the beginning of next chapter. 
> 
> Also, any Beta Readers out there? :)


	14. Crescendo

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My apologies for the delay in posting this. I suffered a mental block and ended up rewriting chapter 14/15 several times. Then I accidentally didn't save the last one I re-wrote which means I had to do it all over again (d'oh!). It may not be as carefully curated as others, but for some reason this part of the plot has been particularly challenging for me (lots of elements to take into consideration that I may have been overthinking so I had to start fresh).  
> Second part coming up soon! I have several chapters written ahead of 14/15 so I will aim to post them in the next weeks as I have some time off.

_“Three things cannot be long hidden:_

_The Sun, the Moon, and the Truth.’’_

Buddha

.

.

.

_25 th of October_

Damian had been right about his lead, had proved that in fact, Drake was nowhere close to cracking the – _his_ – case. Something bigger was at play and the former assassin would have put his hand through fire that the next attack would take place on Halloween night. It was the night where the crazies all came out, even more so than usual, and all heroes’ attention would be divided across the city. From a tactical view, black outs – plural, because multiple would only add to the growing instability of the town – would represent the perfect distraction.

From what, though, was the question. What was it all orchestrated for – the sake of chaos? Robbing banks? Spreading thin the presence of law enforcement and vigilantes in such a manner can’t be just about money, and while causing mayhem effectively can elevate one’s status as a criminal, Damian suspected the criminal ringleader had a bigger agenda than that.

Josie Clarkson had not been an entirely dead lead, not that Drake needed to know that. In her account of Finnegan coming to visit her, babbling about inhuman threats in what she had assumed to be a drug-fuelled paranoia, he had also mentioned that he changed his plan about helping Wyatt because their ‘errands’ evolved into something that required getting his hands bloody. Finnegan had visited Clarkson weeks before Hannah Walker’s death, so it was unlikely he was referring to her.

The man however, reportedly informed his former girlfriend that ‘ _it had been all Sanders’ fault’_.

Damian’s theory was that Walker had known more than she let on, seeing as she had mentored Sanders himself, and perhaps the runaway had reached out to her, or attempted to with evidence of the criminal operation. Walker had been incredibly vocal about finding him, rallying members of the community – and she certainly had the numbers to reach out given her reputation – in conducting searches for him, spreading awareness about his disappearance and even organising a protest of over well two hundred people in front of the Aceline Auction house. The director, Edelstein may have not officially accused Sanders of the theft, but he had also refused to deny that his organisation considered that possibility. Plus, the journalist that published the defaming article on Sanders obtained the information well before the insurance company or police did, so it could have only come from one place.

Perhaps Walker was in on something all along, and Damian had to admit his respect of the woman had increased throughout the investigation. She had not been just an old woman that begged for her life and then died alone. She had been an activist, a mentor to hundreds of disenfranchised young individuals, a loved member of the communities in which she had lived over the years. That did not mean she could not have cracked under the pressure of having a gun pressed to her temple, but perhaps there was more to that.

They were all connected: Finnegan, Wyatt, Sanders, Walker and Edelstein. So, Damian set to investigate the auction house. Everything was squeaky clean – or that’s what it would have looked to the Gotham Police, had they ever decided to investigate themselves. But, of course, the members of GCPD could not even dream about being anywhere Damian’s league when it came to hunting people down.

And what a fruitful hunt it had turned out to be.

It only took him a few hours to discover that the Aceline Auction house had been dabbling in illegal activities, increasingly so over recent years starting with auctioning off-the-record goods. Provided by the very same members of GCPD police, from the looks of it. Damian had at least three detectives on his list by the end of his research.

That’s where it got more interesting. Over the past year, the three officers – Anderson, Garcia, and Nelson – had, altogether, closed off successfully thirty-four cases, out of seventy-three they were assigned, officially anyway. Forty-six percent rate. At first glance they appear average, especially when looking at the cases they resolved: petty thefts, malicious damages, grand theft auto. Previous years showed the same patterns. 

It was the car thefts that piqued Damian’s attention. They had four cases closed throughout the year so far. A range of American and European cars, older models, relatively invaluable. Nothing that would put the three officers on the list of GCPD’s best detectives but would at the very least, demonstrate they are competent enough to keep their jobs, seeing as the cars were equipped with modified chassis, to allow for secret compartments in which money and drugs had been hidden. Unsurprisingly, the cars were registered in fake names, and they were later sent to be destroyed. The money and drugs were sequestered by the GCPD.

Three criminals were found guilty of the trafficking, all of whom were subsequently arrested and convicted. One of them committed suicide. Another was killed in prison, weeks after he was sent there. A third suffered a heart attack.

How convenient.

Neither one of the three detectives had investigated Walker’s death or Sander’s disappearance. However, both Anderson and Nelson had arrested Finnegan and Wyatt in the past – it took some time to unearth those records, but they were undeniable. 

There it was. The connection.

Nelson had been out on sick leave for weeks, whereas Garcia was on vacation somewhere in Asia with his family. That left Anderson whom Damian found hiding in his apartment. It was from him that the boy found that the seventeen illegal cars they’d found months earlier had not contained just drugs or money but also different types of weapons. Anderson wasn’t sure what they were, as they were sealed away in various containers. Finnegan and Wyatt had roped George Sanders into helping them at the auction house where the weapons were taken, and Anderson and his two accomplices were generously paid off for their contribution. The three criminals that smuggled the cars were unsuspecting parties, and Anderson and his officers hid away the presence of weapons, purposefully leaving them unrecorded.

The origin of such items was largely a mystery although Wyatt had told them someone referring to themselves as ‘Angel’ was behind the entire operation.

Sanders threw a wrench in their plan when he refused to cooperate any further and had seemingly obtained evidence of the illegal activities. He ran away. Finnegan and Wyatt believed the boy had reached out to his former mentor, Hannah Walker for help, but Anderson and the other two police officers had found no evidence. Wyatt, sadistic, unhinged as he was, decided to take the matter in his own hands, afraid that the ‘Angel’ will find out it was his very contact who was jeopardising the operation.

Anderson had no longer been contacted until a few days earlier, when he received a package at his home address. It contained parts of Nelson’s body. When he reached out to Garcia, he’d found that his partner had received a similar delivery.

A day later, they were called by what had sounded like a man’s voice warning them that they must ‘clean up the mess’ by killing Edelstein or they’ll be both framed for Nelson’s murder. Garcia decided to take his family and escape, but Anderson stayed behind as he had gambled all his money away and had no way of exiting Gotham as quickly.

He had also considered following through with the request. 

The corrupt officer was on the verge of offering his theory on who the ‘Angel’ might be, when his apartment was attacked by several masked men. They were not quite the amateurs that Finnegan or Wyatt had been but had also not presented a challenge to Damian in taking them down. The smoke bomb they used was odd, however – there were herbal undertones to it that made the young Robin suspect it was just another one of the new weapons being put in circulation.

It was strong enough to disorientate a person, cause them a violent nausea and psychical pain judging by Anderson’s reaction. Damian had managed to pull the man out of there, but by the time he had arrived at a hospital, he was already dead. Heart-attack. Not a direct cause of the fumes, but it had been the last push needed for his body – already in poor health – to give in. Had he not been there, Anderson would have been found dead on the floor of his apartment out of apparent natural causes.

Damian wouldn’t have said he cared that Anderson died, although the preferrable outcome would have been for the man to be exposed for his corruption and punished accordingly. Gordon was made aware of the findings on the man and the other two police officers.

As it turns out, Garcia’s family had reported him missing while making a stop in Singapore, so it was safe to assume the Angel had gotten to him as well.

The assailants from Anderson’s apartment were identified and interrogated. Former convicts. They were recruited anonymously, by the same voice that had threatened Anderson, but they did not know anything beyond that. One of them did admit that they were not the only ones to have been hired – it seems the Angel had been dabbling into heavy recruitment which only reinforced Damian’s theory that a large-scale event was imminent. 

It took him a few days, but Damian was able to narrow down the list of suspects that might be behind the mysterious ‘Angel’ identity, to a dozen or so individuals.

_Not good enough._

He asked Alfred to let Fay know that he would be unavailable due to the flu, and if she required, to contact the butler directly.

There could be no distractions.

He had checked on her tracker several times in the days to come. Nothing out of ordinary.

Good.

(He pushed away the slight sense of disappointment at how easily she accepted his absence and feigned ignorance).

.

.

.

_31 st of October, 19:23_

Grayson made Father aware of what they suspected would take place in Gotham. Batman was expected for an immediate return, his affairs with the League over. Damian should have been relieved. Yet he felt that perhaps it was a sign his father did not trust him to protect Gotham on his own, even though he had been planning for days how to spread its protectors most efficiently in anticipation of a suspected attack. He had even included Drake.

Okay, Grayson left him no choice, but Damian refrained from maim him, even when Red Robin had started arguing with him on the best way to spread the vigilantes across town. That counted for something, right?

Naturally, they went with Damian’s plan. With Oracle as their eyes and ears, they had been ready to act since the first hours of Halloween, intent in being vigilant for at least twenty-four hours. There was always a possibility the Angel might not attack. Especially if he or she knew that Robin was onto them and their operation was no longer as hidden as it originally had been.

Edelstein’s body was found on the banks of Gotham River shortly after dawn. Broken neck. No fingerprints or DNA traces. A clean kill.

Perched atop a medium-rise building, in south west of Gotham, he watched the civilians below. The city was busier than usual at that time of the day, as the frenzy for Halloween celebrations reached its peak with children going out for trick or treating, teenagers pranking unsuspecting civilians and adults dressing themselves in the most ridiculous of get-ups.

(If you asked Damian, anyone who dared wearing a Batman or Robin costume should be charged with slander.)

His head throbbed. The migraine had been consistent for the last forty-eight hours, and painkillers had done nothing to alleviate it. Earlier that evening he had also felt nauseous – he wholeheartedly blamed it on Grayson’s idea of taking over Alfred’s duties and serving them all burgers of his own making. Damian had not been allowed to leave until he ate at least two, although he refused to go to sleep as the former Robin insisted.

He'll sleep when he was certain that Gotham was safe.

Failing to stop the Angel was not an option, especially with his father set to return to Gotham that night. It was a great opportunity to show him that Damian was more than ready on conducting missions of his own, and to also re-emphasize that there was no need to go back to the Titans (which his father had hinted at wanting to propose again once he returned).

His sensitive ears picked up on something shifting through the air, so discreet that it could have been the wind, and shuriken in hand, he turned around ready to block or defend but he found there was no need. The wolf-like creature landed swiftly from the other building to the one Damian was on, with an agility that no dog could be capable of. The boy’s hair stood up on the back of his neck when he saw the backpack he was holding in his mouth.

If Bagheera was there, looking specifically for Robin, then it was to safe to assume Fay knew who he was.

If Fay wasn’t with him, however, it meant something had happened.

“Where is she?’’

The beast growled, dropping the backpack to the floor and tilted his head towards it.

Shuriken away, Damian rushed to it and quickly opened it to find a plastic envelope – there was an USB key in it, on top of her other items.

There was also a rectangular card, attached to a lanyard. Tom Yale. Security guard. At Gotham Academy.

There was blood seeping between the lanyard and the card.

Not her blood. It couldn’t be. If she had been wounded, Bagheera would have never left alone which meant…. she purposefully sent her dog for him. With a clue.

And someone was attacking Gotham Academy.

.

.

.

_Earlier that evening…._

Fay had every intention of contacting Damian the moment she’d found what was on that USB key. It was a footage of George Sanders, filming himself in a dark location she could not identify, stating that if someone did find that video, it likely meant he was dead. He urged the viewer to ensure that the ‘truth’ is passed on to the police, and to his family whom he professed his love for, then apologised for ‘failing them’.

It was a heart-breaking image, because one could see the fear and guilt colouring his features, and the tears in his eyes.

George seemed to have left a sort of testimony behind explaining that former boys he grew up with had blackmailed him in helping them at the auction house. Edward Edelstein, the museum director had been running illegal, private auctions in which dangerous weapons, drugs and other luxury goods were being brought in and sold off to different criminals that had been recruited by the same individuals who reached out to him. Something is being planned for the last night of October, on Halloween. ‘ _Gotham City is in danger’_ , George continued. Having investigated on his own, he found out that Edelstein had been involved with what he believed to be ‘very dangerous people’ of whom he was frightened himself, and George suspected that weapons were being auctioned off in private meetings.

When he’d confronted his former friends, George found that they were employed by those dangerous people and one of them, John Finnegan, warned him there’s no way out or they’ll all die. Not wanting to be a part of it any longer, George reveals in the video that he tried to find out as much evidence of the operation as possible. Police officers are also involved in the operation, so he knew he couldn’t reach out to them, but he hoped that the media might help. However, ‘ _the Angel’_ saw him _‘that night’_ , so he had been on the run ever since. He subsequently learned that the learned that the media was saying all kinds about of him that were untrue.

_They were making sure he had nowhere to hide._

The video cut off abruptly, and Fay had caught George looking up frightened over the phone, to something – or someone – in front of him, right before. Someone must have discovered him. Perhaps he had been hiding at the Tilt ‘n Spin, and upon realizing he’d been tracked down, hid the USB drive as a last attempt at getting the truth out.

Hannah Walker must have known. Or perhaps she had yet to follow on the lead he had left beyond.

Except she never got a chance to do so because she had been killed.

With increasing trepidation, and sweaty palms Fay tried to look at the other files – there was a folder that was password-encrypted, and she left it alone after being denied access. There were also several photos taken – of images on a computer, and some were blurry as if they were taken in a hurry (they must have been, if George had been trying to obtain evidence undetected). There were images of children – or files on them with square photos of them placed in the upper part of the pages.

There were at least a dozen files.

And they all bore the Gotham Academy crest.

The final page looked like a— _flyer?-_ no. Black, full of illustrations of pumpkins and skulls and ghouls, with letters drawn as if they were made of blood announcing the annual Gotham Academy Scarefest.

Students and staff members only invited.

On 31st of October, at 18:00.

It was 18:17.

.

From a logical standpoint, she should have gone to Damian directly with her findings and let him take over. Bagheera could have tracked him down, or she could have found a way to contact him. She had memorised both his and Alfred’s number after all. Fay wasn’t sure if it was recklessness or her childhood teachings that instead pushed her to run as quick as possible towards the Academy. Perhaps both.

The anxiety and fear were momentarily pushed down by the rush of adrenaline and she couldn’t escape the sense of déjà vu. Or the nauseating feeling of running towards something, racing against time, hoping it wasn’t too late. She had felt that when she had run into the burning building, months earlier as well, and after, when she went after Helen’s thieves.

It had never struck her until that moment that despite that nauseating sense of anticipation that made her heart beat so fast that she feared it might jump out of her ribcage, she consistently chose to put herself in situations that drove it. Fay knew it was dangerous to follow a lead like that, especially in her weakened state. She knew that even if she did get there in time – she didn’t even know what for, except that the students were in danger -, she would not be able to do anything. Not when the bracelets constantly threatened her health and had blocked her flux and she spent her days recording reoccurring symptoms.

It wasn’t fearlessness. Because she was terrorised, really.

But it was those teachings ringing loud in her ears again.

It was what felt right, deep down. Clearly, someone was going to attack Gotham Academy – and they were set to do so at that Halloween festival that was being organised. There was no other answer, not that she could think of. Perhaps if she had been able to access the other files, she would have known more.

It had been more difficult than usual to get into Gotham Academy because there were far more guards patrolling about---and Fay was quite certain that before they did not have weapons.

The Halloween decorations gave the building a morbid décor, what with the hanging skeletons and artificially-lit jack o’ lanterns and fake cobwebs that had been applied a bit too enthusiastically in some corners. Posters, using the same colour palette as the invite she’d seen on the drive, were also hanging from the wall – announcing that the main event would take place in the recital room, where there’d be refreshments and music and a ‘haunted house’ that had been built by the very same students of Gotham Academy.

Fay and Bagheera quietly sneaked from one end to the other of the Academy, having accessed the property using the sports compound, located in the opposite direction. Bagheera picked up on the sounds of children and staff members before she did, and they had to hide in a classroom to avoid the students walking about dressed in various costumes---Fay wasn’t familiar enough with that world to identify all of them, but she could see there weren’t all meant to be scary. Some students were wearing attires that resembled the armour and attires of protectors of that world – like Superman, and Wonder Woman and well, Batman and Robin too.

They needed to blend in as well – so Fay ended up pulling what looked like a dark hooded robe with a red interior and a gold and red crest that she wasn’t sure it stood for. It was the simplest one she’d found on the rack of clothes that had been pushed to the side down the corridor, towards the recital room which she knew was particularly large. It must have been used to host families judging by the dozens of chairs that were kept folded to one side and the raised theatre-like platform to one end. Bagheera had pulled her away into another classroom, when two staff members – a man and a woman- exited the double doors of the recital room and she quickly understood why, as she watched them by through the crack of the door.

They looked as if they were from a catering service judging by the aprons and matching uniform.

But they were wearing combat boots. Fay spotted the handle of a---knife? —sticking from the edge of one of woman’s boot.

Heart pounding, she closed the door and turned to look at Bagheera but instead of finding him near her, she saw that he had walked at the back of the room. There was a door there and when she approached it, she saw a dark, pool of liquid trickling from underneath it. She didn’t know to open it to understand what it meant but she still did, flashlight in hand.

Surely enough, the lifeless body of a guard had been shoved inside, his head lolled back revealing the deep cut around his jugular where the blood had gushed out, staining the better part of his pale blue uniform, and down on the cleaning chemicals and old boxes that were in what appeared to be a storage room.

Fay stepped back, closing her eyes, and taking a few deep breaths, suddenly feeling she could taste the blood in her own mouth. It wasn’t the first time she saw a dead body. She had been eight, the first time she did – late by the standards of older generations of Maysoon, but too early, if you had asked her father. It was ironic, given he had witnessed death at half that age. She wasn’t sure it would ever get easier, not when after _that_ night, most dead bodies she associated with the ones she’d seen littering her homeland. But unlike other children, she didn’t retch or scream, just took a couple of minutes to compose herself as she felt the slivers of a panic attack work its way through her body.

It wasn’t as much as the security guard’s death that rattled her as it was the sudden flashback she’d had, a morbid testament – and reminder – that she was not of that world. She had no right to be that taken back – she should have been used to it by then. She should be stronger, because the children and staff members partying away several hundred feet away from where she was were completely oblivious to what was happening.

Taking a few deep breaths, she pressed the nails of her fingers into her palms, the sting keeping her grounded.

 _Think, think, think. How many are there? They’ve killed the guard –_ but she’s seen several others patrolling about – _so maybe they’ve taken their identity. Just like with the catering staff. To do what?_

Gotham Academy was a prestigious school attended by some of the richest children in the city. So, it would make sense for them to be targeted----to kill them? No. What good would that do? And it seemed too…simple, as ruthless as that may have sounded.

In the video, George had mentioned Gotham city was in danger, so the Academy wasn't the only point of interest. If the auction house director had been part of a weapon trafficking operation, then just targeting the school didn’t make sense.

 _The encrypted file -_ that could offer more information on what was planned. _Damian would be able to access it._ Cursing herself for not having made the decision earlier, she ended up asking Bagheera to go search for him while she stayed behind. Her paladin had been reluctant, but ultimately followed her request – people were in danger, after all.

She had put the guard’s ID card inside her bag – keeping her flashlight and multi-purpose pocketknife (courtesy of Dana) – before handing it to Bag. Fay hugged him, pressing her head to his in a quiet goodbye before she watched him jump out the window.

Left alone in that dark classroom with the dead body not too far from her, Fay had momentarily stared at the lights of the buildings around the Academy.

She doubted she could save any of those children if they got attacked or kidnapped.

But at the very least, she could pass off as one of them and try to understand what the criminals wanted.

Bagheera would find her.

He always did.

_“Always counting on others to save you, huh? You’re embarrassing.’’_

.

Bagheera was no regular dog. Damian had always known that – a hybrid of sorts, at the very least. He had asked Fay once how she came to have Bag, and she had seemed offended that he implied she owned him, pointing out that he is her ‘partner’, not ‘pet’. It hadn’t surprised him because she clearly had a strong attachment to the creature---and indeed, she did not treat him as a pet.

The emotions that washed over him, like a wave of water, were not his, even if some did coincide with what he’d felt as well. Concern, wariness, anger, affection – they were so strong that Damian was momentarily stunned, almost dizzy when he’d felt those emotions wash over him. It wasn’t the first creature he’d come across that had that ability – he had worked with someone else who had similar powers only months earlier.

Bagheera was an empath.

.

The recital room would have been fascinating to explore had it not been for the throngs of children running about dressed in rather elaborate costumes. Some were more convincing than others. Some left her momentarily distracted and befuddled. Robby, too, had expressed excitement with Halloween and had informed her that he and his friends were going to a party, dressed as vampires and werewolves.

Hm. If only any of the people there had lived in her world…. she wasn’t sure if they’d be as eager to impersonate other creatures.

Not that her homeland did not have festivities that were in the vein of celebrating the dead. Or costume parties, for that matter. Pulling the hood of her robe up over her head, she had tried to make herself as inconspicuous as possible as she walked towards the long buffet table. Unsurprisingly, even the food was Halloween themed what with ghost-covered pizzas, witch cakes and cheesecake…eyeballs. Huh.

Fay couldn’t tell if there was anything out of ordinary with any of the food, not when it already was and not without Bagheera’s keen sense of smell. Unsure how to proceed, she ended up staring at the room before her, observing the many decorations – orange and black garlands, fake headstones, skeletons and jack o’ lanterns again – and the guests – children and staff members alike – mingling with one another. Across the room from her, there was a large red sign that pointed towards left announcing the ‘haunted house’ was in that direction and when she followed it with her eyes, she saw two older children dressed as---something furry. Werewolves, again, maybe? They seemed to be in charge with allowing others go through a door that’s been decorated with cobwebs and fake blood. When she looked towards the right end of the room, where the theatre platform was, she saw that the drapes were drawn closed and a sign announced that the haunted house was in motion so no one should use go through.

She jumped when someone squealed a couple of feet down from her, and she turned to see a girl around her age, dressed in a robe like Fay’s stare disgustedly at the bowl before her. Ah, yes. The worm-shaped candy. The girl looked up at Fay, pushing her glasses higher on the bridge of her nose. She had blue eyes, and her blond hair was curly, falling past her shoulders. 

“Oh! You’re a fellow Gryffindor.’’ She smiled excitedly.

_What---what is a griffin…door?_

Panicking – disturbingly more than when she discovered the dead body – she glanced behind herself, wondering if the girl was speaking to someone else. There was nobody around them. Then the girl was suddenly very close---too close- and Fay took a step back, hackles raising. The scent of mangoes wafted over her.

“Wh—what?’’

The girl leaned forward, and Fay comically leaned back, as the blue eyes scrutinised her openly, head to toe. “It’s not the best rendition I’ve seen---but it’s pretty good.’’ She said, pulling back, then smiled again. “I haven’t seen you before--- are you in Grade 7?’’

_What_

_Wait. School grade? Think, think._

“Um, --I am new.’’ Fay responded. “Just—just transferred.’’

“Oh?’’ The girl blinked. “When was that? From what school? How old are you? I am thirteen. Well, twelve and ten months. But I am in Grade 7 as well!’’ The girl didn’t stop there, but instead kept barraging Fay with a slew of questions that she had trouble keeping up with. She considered just taking off, but she couldn’t be sure the girl wouldn’t have followed, and subsequently cause a scene.

 _I don’t have time for this. I have to---I must tell someone what is going on but…_ She glanced at the staff members standing across the room, against the room. Some were dressed in costumes as well, while others have preferred to keep their formal uniforms on, but they were all wearing tags hanging from their necks. They did not seem worried, as they talked amongst themselves and monitored the children before them.

They were completely oblivious that criminals had infiltrated the Academy and there was a dead body in the room adjacent to the recital room.

Unless…they were in on it. Or some of them.

What could she do? Call the police? George had said they couldn’t be trusted so what was to say she wouldn’t end up alert the criminals that she was onto to them. Find a way to contact Damian or Alfred and let them know? Bagheera would be faster, most likely than if she tried to find a phone. If she told the teachers, they would have the same options as she did and if one of them was indeed the enemy in disguise, she’d only expose herself.

What if by doing so, she’d endanger the children further?

“I am sorry.’’ Fay blinked, and turned to look at the girl again, having lost track of what she was saying. The blond looked embarrassed, cheeks reddening slightly. “I talk a lot, don’t I? I didn’t mean to.’’ Fay suddenly felt guilty even if she didn’t know the girl. Come to think off, she wasn’t with any other children, although everyone else seemed to have paired up with someone or were part of a group. She spotted a group of girls standing a few feet away, snickering as they cast not-so-subtle mocking looks towards them. Or rather, the blond. She seems to have noticed, glancing at them with a frown before stepping back from Fay.

That looked painfully familiar. “It’s okay.’’ The blond looked up at her in surprise. “Um, I don’t mind.’’ She did, but---she couldn’t stand that look on the girl’s face. She’d seen it before, in the mirror.

“My name is Cora.’’ The girl extended her hand, and out of instinct Fay took it, although she let go within three seconds. “Fay.’’

“Fay.’’ Cora repeated. “Is it short for something?’’

Yes. “Um, no. Just—just Fay.’’

Cora opened her mouth to ask something else, but she was cut off by the voice cutting through the room. Someone had walked up on the stage, holding a microphone, and was demanding that everyone’s attention reverted in that direction. Lights dimmed, and the room would have been plunged in darkness had not it been for the various fluorescent decorations.

A woman had walked on the stage, wearing a white, silky cape that reached the ground and pooled slightly around her. Her dark hair was coifed back in a bun and she was wearing a delicate, lace mask that had white feathers curling outwards from the corners. It was a dazzling ensemble, completed by the white gloves and white attire she was wearing underneath, especially in that room full of ghoulish, colourful attires.

She looked like…. _an angel._

It was the woman from George’s footage.

Her heart sunk to her stomach, and her blood went cold as she stared around – there was a mixture of confusion, awe, and surprise on the faces that she could make out in the dark and beneath the make-up. She did spot the teachers across the room look at each other with alarmed looks, visibly tense. Cora had an equal look of surprise etched on her face. “Who is that?’’

“Ladies and gentlemen, girls and boys---‘’ The woman announced suddenly, rather gleefully, just as a dark green smoke started to filter the room through the vents, not obvious immediately given the existing fake fog. A few children standing nearest the vents started coughing loudly. “---Tonight, is a night you will remember for the rest of your lives.’’

People started panicking, screaming and the fear was palpable. Fay stayed rooted in her spot and watched as men wearing gas masks blocked the exits, forcing children attempting to escape back in the middle of the room. Some of the teachers tried to fight back, but they were quickly knocked out which only contributed to the terror of the rest of the audience.

“Oh my god, oh my god---‘’ Cora cried, face red and tears welling up in her eyes. She turned towards Fay. “Fay! – They---They are going to kidnap us!’’

Fay just stared, the panic attack assailing her quicker than the smoke or the criminals did, head throbbing and an invisible claw clutching her heart. Her breathing was ragged, and not just because of the panic – the smoke was rapidly rising, clogging their lungs and Fay watched as children succumbed to it, one by one. The Angel had remained on-stage, a gas mask over her mouth as she watched her plan come to fruition.

Cora grabbed onto her, coughing hard but Fay barely registered her words.

The visibility around them reduced, and Fay’s mind was already working in replacing reality with frightening flashbacks. She watched fictive shapes of eldritch terrors appear in the smoke, and she wasn’t sure if the screams she was hearing were of the children in there or the ones from _that_ night. She was vaguely aware of Cora falling at her feet. In a twisted way, she had welcomed the effects of the toxic smoke because they made her black out, stopping her from having to deal with the panic attack.

.

When Fay finally regained consciousness, she found herself in a dark, small space. She struggled to move her limbs and pull herself into a sitting position, room spinning around her and head pounding. The floor was hard – concrete? – and cold, and her coat and shoes had been removed, leaving her in the baggy dark sweatshirt and her trousers. The space she was in was a hollow cube of grey stone, no windows. Ration told her there had to be at least an entrance but she couldn’t see it. Her eyes had difficulty adjusting to the dark, and she found herself propping herself against one of the walls, walking alongside it to make sense of her surroundings.

The air felt colder in there, but there was no wind or breeze that she could feel, and it smelt…musty. No sounds, eerily quiet. Was it a basement or…a dungeon? Did Gotham even have dungeons? It was a cell of some kind, that she was at least certain of. She did find a door, on the second wall to her right– locked, of course. Made of metal, heavy.

Her stomach lurched.

She was only vaguely aware of the echoing sound of footsteps approaching her cell as she doubled over to vomit. The light that flooded into the space forced her eyes shut, as she leaned with one hand over a knee and with other’s sleeve trying to wipe her mouth. A strong perfume scent wafted over her from the person that stepped in, and tentatively she glanced at them.

It was a woman. Tall, slim. Dark, curly hair falling over her shoulders but pulled back from her face. She was dressed in a two-piece white suit. The mask and cape were gone, but unmistakably, it was the same woman she saw on stage at Gotham Academy.

The Angel.

“Ah. You’re finally awake, I see.’’ She remarked casually. “Let me look at you.’’

Fay tried to step back from the woman, but her legs were wobbly, so she barely managed a few inches, before the woman’s now-bare hand touched her with a tight grip. A cold, but perfectly manicured hand slid around her chin, sharp fingernails digging into her cheeks as her head was tilted up, forcefully. Fay’s eyes met the woman’s darker ones, and she got a close look at her features. She was beautiful, a cold sort of beauty because her dark eyes were cruel, and her smile was cutting. There was nothing kind about it.

“Who are you?’’ The woman asked, fingernails digging deeper, threateningly. “You are not a student of Gotham Academy, so I am curious as to how you got in.’’

“I---I---I was already there. In the library.’’ Fay managed. It was rather hard talking when her cheeks were being pressed unnaturally like that. “Some---sometimes I sleep there.’’

Damian told her that the identity of Fay Kipling was largely fool-proof and if authorities ever had a reason to question it, they won’t find anything out of ordinary. Her parents, former employees of Wayne Enterprises, had died in a car accident two years earlier saving her to pretend she had living direct relatives. Following their death, she stayed in Gotham under the care of a family friend. Fay met Damian through charitable events, and she was home-schooled, just like himself.

It did give her a plausible explanation as to why she did not attend school like other children, or why she was largely left to her devices. However, Fay was uncomfortable revealing to what she assumed was a criminal leader – the Angel – that she was close to Damian Wayne, heir of Wayne Enterprises. The children – _were they even alive? Where were they? –_ had to have been kidnapped because of who their parents were. Why else? If the woman knew she was on friendly terms with the richest and powerful of children in Gotham, what if that’d get him in trouble? What if it interfered with his identity as Robin and the woman somehow found out that he was one and the same? Fay did not have enough information on what resources she had to find something like that, but she did not want to risk it.

“Is that so?’’ The Angel let go of her, and Fay immediately pulled away, one hand reaching to her tender cheeks where she felt the indentations left behind by her nails. “Quite the little delinquent, aren’t you? To seek shelter in a school for the rich.’’ The woman had an accent, one that Fay thought she found familiar, but her head was throbbing too hard to focus properly. She didn’t respond either or watched as a burly man stepped appeared in the hall beyond the cell, and cleared his throat drawing the woman’s attention.

He was holding a tablet, which the woman grabbed from his hands, as she momentarily turned her back to Fay. It was a lost opportunity to attack of course, and Fay’s weakness stung her more than usual because she knew she didn’t even have the strength to stand up yet.

“Fay Kipling.’’

_Oh no._

The woman grinned, more of a gesture baring her teeth than a real smile as she looked at what Fay presumed were the false documents Damian had created her. “My, my, my.’’ Her smugness made Fay feel nauseous again. “Friends with the Waynes, are we now?’’

_Shit._

Fay didn’t respond and tried to control her expression when the woman approached her again, turning the table towards her. A photo had been pulled up and it was of her and Damian at the museum. It seemed to have been taken from afar, and from outside, just barely catching their shape as they stood near the entrance, in the Grand Hall. The quality and resolution were good enough for both to be identifiable in the picture, however.

“Now, how about you tell me the truth---‘’ The woman reached to caress a hand against her face, which was deceptively gentle, in comparison to the words that came out of her mouth next. “Before I cut you apart and post you back to your parents.’’

 _Postage would be expensive._ Fay blamed the inappropriate, dark sense of humour on the toxic fumes she’d inhaled. _Although it does run in the family._

“I---My parents are Jonathan and---and um, Erica Kipling. They—they died in a car accident. Two years ago.’’ It was easy to talk about the deaths of her fictional parents. “I---My uncle is taking care of me.’’

“And you’re friends with Damian Wayne.’’

Up for debate, really. Months into their arrangement, and she still could not find a simple explanation to what they were. “…our families are.’’ She said quietly. “I—don’t know him that well.’’ The Angel would not be interested in her, or the Kipling family, but she’d want to have some sort of leverage to get to Damian. Fay could not have that – even if it was more likely that the boy was more than prepared to deal with such a situation. He was Robin, as well. If people weren’t after him due to his title, they were after him because of the other identity.

It was her fault, though, that she was in that position. If the woman used her as leverage to contact him, Fay knew he’d come-- not as Damian, but as Robin. She would be a distraction, a liability, one more burden for him when Gotham was already in danger as it was. Fay had faith Bagheera would succeed in finding him, but she could only hope that he had enough time to figure out what the Angel planned beyond kidnapping the children at the Academy.

“Well. We shall see about that, won’t we?’’ The woman straightened, lowering the tablet. “Put her with the rest.’’ She ordered. _They’re still alive!_ “She might more useful than we thought.’’ With that, the criminal mastermind turned around and walked away, turning right down the hall. The burly man stepped in, only his eyes visible underneath the dark mask. “Get up.’’ He ordered gruffly. “Don’t make me drag you.’’

Fay did as she was told, although the man wasn’t patient as she tried to gather her bearings and he pushed her roughly out of the cell. When she stumbled, and almost fell, he just forced her back up, a meaty hand gripping her small, bony shoulder painfully. He pushed her towards left, but she had managed to catch a glimpse of the long hall towards the right, which had appeared endless, ramifying itself a couple of hundred feet down. The halls were made of the same grey-stone as her cell, windowless, again, but the draft was stronger there, as was the musty scent. The the air felt colder, almost freezing and she shivered.

An exit was nearby. It had to be.

The corridor to the left, down which she was led, was shorter as she could see the end in sight marked by a heavy metallic door again. She counted two doors to her left, and three to her right ---they stopped at the end the hall. The man raised the key card hanging from his belt and scanned it against the black box placed halfway on the wall, making it go from red to green.

She heard gasps and barely suppressed screams as he pulled the door open, and Fay only managed to catch a glimpse of the group of children inside before she was shoved in. Ungracefully – and shamefully – she managed to land on her knees, and Cora – disrobed herself and left in just a long-sleeved white shirt and a pleated skirt – immediately came to her side. “Fay!’’ The girl exclaimed and Fay looked at her, then the room around them, feeling disoriented again.

No windows, but it was significantly larger than the one she’d woken up in and there was a weak neon light above their heads. There was at least a dozen or so children, their makeup streaked and ruined by their tears and elaborate costumes now dismantled, leaving them with few layers to keep them protected against the cold of the cell. Most had huddled against the walls, trying to keep each other warm while others were sitting apart, sobbing softly, curling in on themselves.

Cora’s glasses were missing, and she was shivering visibly. Her eyes were red-rimmed and puffy, and there were still tears in her eyes when she’d looked at Fay, shaky hands reaching for her.

“Is---is this everyone?’’ There had to have been at least fifty children at the academy, and Fay had counted ten staff members. Where was everyone?

Cora sniffed, and wiped at her eyes. “I-I think they’re kept in the other cells, we heard them.’’ She looked around. “I don’t know where we are. We all just woke up here.’’ Her blue eyes zeroed in back on Fay. “It was that woman---did she do something to you? Where were you?’’

“I woke up in a cell somewhere---then the guard just moved me here.’’ Fay lied. “Did---did the woman say anything?’’

Cora shrugged. “She came in a while ago and said that if our parents cooperated with her demands, then they’d let us go. She---she took pictures of us.’’

Of course, she did. To prove the parents that they were still alive.

_What time is it? I wonder if Bagheera found Damian._

_They’ll be able to track us down._

_Right?_

Because in that moment, she was defenceless as those children. With her clothes removed, she had also lost her flashlight and knife.

So, she ended up pressing herself her back against the wall, standing close to the door in hopes of hearing anything that might clue her where they are or what’s next. Cora sat down next to her, pressed shoulder, and hip to her, shivering and trying to hide when she’d started crying again. In the semi-lit room, her blond hair reminded Fay of Titoh’s pale hair, and she had to dig her fingernails back into her palm, to fight off the dark path her thoughts were spiralling towards.

_._

Fay wasn’t sure how long it had been, but she had fallen asleep – or perhaps she fainted again – arms wrapped around herself. There was an explosion – the energy reverberating through the thick stone walls. The flux, as weak and subdued as it was by the bracelets, shifted, waking her up. Then another explosion followed. Closer this time. The other children started to rouse and look around alarmed.

A dark-haired boy pulled himself to his feet. “Did you guys hear that?!’’ He looked up with a mixture of hopefulness and fear. “Maybe someone has come to save us.’’ Gunshots followed---firearms were being fired rapidly above their heads. There were either other tunnels above their or perhaps the surface. Either way, someone or something was causing the armed guards to open fire.

Students pulled themselves to their feet, stepping back from the door when they heard other metallic doors down the hall being opened and the sounds of other children screaming. They were running. Fay also pulled herself up, but didn’t step back along with the others, instinctively putting herself between them and the door, even if she would have hardly posed a barrier between a potential attacker and the other hostages.

The door swung open, and she heard Cora squeal as the girl clutched on Fay’s sweatshirt, partially hiding behind her. How ironic.

“What the---‘’

“Wait a second.’’

“It’s Robin!’’

“Is that a wolf?!’’

Fay’s heart soared at the sight of her paladin, even if he certainly made a frightening sight with his fur standing up, only adding to his size and feral appearance, and jaws parted as he panted, revealing his large, sharp fangs. The masked boy was standing right next to him and Fay couldn’t see his eyes behind the domino mask, but she’d have recognized that smirk anywhere. She also realized that it was the first time since that fateful night in the burning building that she saw him in his full warrior attire.

“Everyone, out! Now!’’ The boy ordered. “Go straight down the hall and don’t stop.’’

The children didn’t need to be told twice, as awe as they have been of the boy standing before them, and they all rushed past Fay, ever so slightly wary of Bagheera, as he stepped in and rushed to Fay. She immediately wrapped her arms around his neck and smiled. “You did it!’’ He growled softly leaning into her touch. “Oh, you’re the best paladin ever.’’ She whispered, basking in the affection and relief that she felt off her paladin and which matched hers.

“You two can hug it out later— ‘’ Damian responded, stepping in as Fay straightened. He was slightly taller when he was wearing his uniform, and as nerve-wracking she found his scrutiny at times, she would have preferred being able to see his expression. “You owe me an explanation’’ He said, albeit not unkindly. There was something in his voice that promised she would not get away with anything less than the truth. 

“I know.’’ Fay nodded. Understandable, even if she hadn’t planned what she’ll say to him. But she had understood that their identity has been compromised the moment she found that USB drive. Fay couldn’t have possibly pretended it never existed, regardless the implications of Damian knowing the truth.

“Let’s go— _ack!’’_ The boy suddenly doubled over, clutching his side.

“Da---Robin!’’ Fay exclaimed. “What’s---what’s the matter?’’ His uniform looked intact, no blood and no signs of an injury.

“I am fine— ‘’ A hiss left his lips, and he suddenly toppled over. Fay tried to cushion his fall, but his weight pulled her down as she awkwardly tried to support him.

_He is burning up!_

A dark green ooze trickled out of his nose, and she stared at it horrified.

_Oh no._

_It can’t be._

Bagheera growled fiercely, the animalistic sound making her head snap up as she looked at the source of his sudden agitation. The Angel was back, standing several feet away from their cell – gas mask back in place. Several men were behind her, wearing matching masks. The green smoke was back, and with horror she watched as Bagheera moved towards the woman and her lackeys, jaws pulled back in a snarl.

The Angel raised her gun and fired.

_“BAGHEERA!’’_

The last thing she saw before she fell unconscious again was her paladin falling limp to the ground.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fay is approximately 12 years old, although not quite as simple as it sounds. More will be revealed in upcoming chapters.  
> Damian is also 12 and a half. For context/timeline purposes -- he was 10 when he joined the Batfam.  
> **Spoilers! For those who haven't read the comics***  
> Several weeks into being with the Batfam, Bruce 'died' and Dick took over, becoming his mentor. In my mind they were the Dynamic Duo for approx 6 months before Bruce came back. The Nobody plotline is one of my favourites so that's something I will keep as part of Damian's background in this story. He died when he was almost 11, and brought back to life a year later (psychically, he was still 11 but chronologically 12). He had have several months of travelling -- inspired by 'Robin, Son of Batman' but not following that plot as to the letter before he ultimately got sent to the Teen Titans.


	15. Fortissimo

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I broke my promise of keeping chapters between 8-10K, but it was for a good reason. The plot has reached an...interesting point, to put it that way, as not to spoil anything and breaking it in two didn't feel right. So brace yourselves folks -- it's a little over 12K and if you think too much is happening in it, that's because it is. The characters are not really catching a break in this one. 
> 
> Warning: It is a more graphic chapter than the ones before, with injuries being described in detail. 
> 
> Enjoy!

_‘For once in your life, here’s your miracle,_

_stand up and fight.’_

\- Kenny Loggins

.

.

.

When Damian woke up, he became aware of several things immediately, brain at work even as he struggled to open his eyes and regain control over his body. 

One, he was in pain. Significantly so – it felt as if hundreds of needles were being pressed through his skin across his entire abdomen. No, no. _Inside_ of him – the pain was coming from inside, the source near his pancreas.

Two, he was outside. The crisp, cold air bit at his cheeks. The scent of pine and resin.

Three, he wasn’t tied up, but his limbs felt as if they were made of lead. His head was throbbing anew, and his mouth felt incredibly parched. His body was not well, and not just in the general sense that it was injured or exhausted. Something was draining his energy. What was it? Poison? Internal haemorrhaging?

He heard footsteps, the rustle of trees as a cold wind sailed from east. Firearms being reloaded. The criminals had their pick from a generous stock, from what Damian had observed, but so far, it wasn’t anything that wasn’t already on the market. Nothing innovative about them. There were at least a hundred men in the compound. Or had been – he had disposed of seventeen in the bunker alone, and Bagheera had taken out a further thirteen.

The Angel’s secret headquarters was built atop an old unfinished military bunker, forty miles outside of Gotham. A metal chain-link fence delineated the base, which measured approximately a mile in length, and half that in width. There were smaller deposits built across the compound, as well as military-style tents set up for the Angel’s lackeys. Damian had not been able to find any blueprints of the bunker, but he and Bagheera had stalked out the base for a while before finally infiltrating. The bunker was located to end of the settlement, so he had planned to have the children evacuated as a priority before focusing on the rest of the criminals.

The USB key that Fay sent out to him had tied all loose ends and consolidated his theory that several areas in Gotham would be targeted. The password-protected file took him under thirty-seconds to unlock – really, why did Sanders even bother – and on it he had found information on Edelstein’s illegal bidding activities, as well as an encoded message – again, hardly a challenge – that once solved, offered coordinates on where and when the next attacks would take place.

Eight locations scattered across Gotham City, poor and rich areas alike.

At midnight, 31st of October.

By eight, they already knew where the enemy would hit.

Gotham Academy, however, had not appeared in any of the coordinates. Damian understood why Fay ended up there, as he examined the files on the students and he certainly _many_ questions to pose her, but they could wait until the Angel was taken care of the and children rescued.

The Angel. Or better said, Angela Russo. Daughter of a low-ranking member of the Italian-Canadian mob, presumed dead at the age of sixteen following an assassination order put out by none other than Falcone himself, twenty years earlier. The family car, with both of her parent’s bodies was found at the bottom of a frigid lake. Her body was never found, but the chances of her having survived were almost non-existed. At least that’s what the press assumed.

So must have Falcone. However, Angela clearly found a way to survive, reinvented herself and assumed the moniker of Angel, which Damian found neither original nor fitting.

With most of the Batman’s allies busy back in the city, Damian had set out to track the kidnapped children aided by Bagheera, who continued to be full of surprises – his keen senses were far superior to any canines and after they stopped at the Gotham Academy to inspect the damage, the beast led him outside of the city, capable of tracking them down for miles. The teachers and several other staff members had been left incapacitated in the recital room, and it seemed Angela had been selective – not all children had been taken. 

It became obvious what the Angel was planning. The children had been kidnapped in a discreet, relatively clean manner as to not attract attention and by the time anyone would have realised what transpired, it would have been too late. The black-outs and the chaos subsequently planned at midnight, would have pulled all attention back to the island, allowing Angela time to start bribing some of the wealthiest families in the city in exchange of having their children returned safely. Not all of them would have given in but with the protectors of Gotham busy keeping the city from burning down, she would have roped enough parents in transferring her funds. She could have gone within hours and left the children behind---or killed them.

She had balls, thinking she could get away just because of the momentary distraction. It would have worked had she found Sanders in time before he contacted Walker, and before he left that USB behind.

And of course, had she known about Fay’s discovery, whom Angela had kidnapped along with everyone else. The child who essentially unravelled her plan was in her hands and the criminal didn’t even know it.

However, there was something Angela’s plan that irked Damian – the woman had been cautious for months, making it difficult for anyone to even know her gender, let alone her involvement in all the operations leading to that moment. For her to not consider that Batman or any other Gotham vigilante would dedicate their attention to tracking her down after that night was…. either stupidly arrogant or completely reckless. Nothing about her actions so far indicated she was the latter. She had been calculating, patient. There was an element of flamboyance in her desire to attack Gotham like that – as if to reaffirm her power, even if Falcone was long gone and the Mafia’s power had significantly waned, so there were no former enemies of her family to prove herself to.

There’s discrepancy in her planning which made Damian wonder if someone else is involved----he didn’t eliminate the possibility that she was not the ‘sponsor’ that he had initially heard about in San Francisco yet.

“Oh, look at that. It looks like the little Robin is awake!’’

“— _Tt_ \--.’’ No point hiding. He opened his eyes – his domino mask hadn’t been removed (yet) – and found the Angel standing a few feet from him, her white cape back on. “A poor attempt on your end to free the children although I must say I am impressed you’ve figured it out.’’

Damn it. The Angel’s men were hardly a challenge for him – so evacuating those children should have been just as easy.

Wait----Fay. Last, he’d seen her, she had stayed behind with him. Was she with the other children?

What about Bagheera?

He glanced at his surroundings, ignoring the throbbing pain at the back of his head when he moved it. His entire body was semi-paralysed. He could feel his limbs, but they did not respond to his brain’s commands. His cape and utility belt had been removed, as well.

He should have just ripped the whole place apart to begin with---but that would have jeopardised their leverage. Angela did not know _they knew_ about the eight locations, and if she did, she might not have a reason to keep the children alive. With just him there, he could simply justify having followed a lead from Anderson if she found it suspicious. 

A soft moan, then a wet cough.

Although he maintained a neutral expression, the blood in his veins went cold when he caught sight of Fay laying down a few feet away to his left. She wasn’t tied up either, but she looked as if she was having trouble moving herself. Blood dripped down the side of her mouth, and two men were standing by her, rifles poised--- a silent promise they would not hesitate to kill her if the situation called for it. When she looked up, her hair damp and sticking against her small, gaunt face, he frowned at what he saw.

A dark bruise had formed around her left eye. Someone hit her. She was crying too—but it was different than usual; there was something particularly desperate about the look on her face.

Bagheera was nowhere to be seen.

Which meant…. _No._

“Feisty little thing. She broke one of my men’s hands when he tried to grab her. ‘’ The Angel remarked amusedly. “Must have really cared about that mutt. A fine specimen, shame we had to put it down.’’

Damian wasn’t sure if Fay had the emotional strength to survive losing Bagheera—she was far too attached to him, dependent almost. Their bond was undeniable regardless of their true identities. Angel bubbled hot in his veins, pushing him up in a sitting position but his body immediately punished him for it. Something acidic and foul worked its way up his throat, and he doubled over, vomiting immediately. There was blood mixed in the bile and he narrowed his eyes.

He was in worse shape than he anticipated.

“Ah, ah. How long had it been since my men tracked you at Anderson’s?’’ The woman asked, tapping her finger in a dramatic display of trying to remember although she knew full well when she had ordered the hit for. “Oh yes. Six days. You’re stronger than most—I’ll give you that. However, the spores reach full maturity between five and seven days after which they will---‘’ Angela smiled. “Well. The _parasite_ that forms from these spores will spread to all your major organs, devouring his way faster than any cancer. And then toxins will start being pumped into your veins and organs. A slow, painful death before you die either of a heart attack or a stroke.’’

 _How?_ Was it the smoke at Anderson’s apartment? Anderson died on the way to the hospital so whatever spores he had inhaled as well, may have not had a suitable host to grow in.

_No. It’s not that._

One of the masked men had managed to land a cut with their knife on his right leg---enough to get through the Kevlar but only left a superficial wound on his skin. Hardly longer than the length of his thumb, and it had healed as normal. Alfred made him go through the usual cleansing bath they often did when their suits were compromised along with a full-check up, but nothing had come up on the scans.

The migraines. And the fever. Symptoms then---but they had only started manifesting two days after the incident. Damian would have admired the ingenuity behind it had it not been for the fact that there was a parasite growing inside of him.

Wonderful.

The woman glanced at the sleek watch on her wrist.

“Got somewhere you need to be?’’ Damian snarked even if the pain was spreading---down his right leg and towards his chest. He could feel the entity pulsing and throbbing, reaching inside of him like an invasive hand, and it had no intention of stopping. He needed to find a way to remove it before it was too late.

Angelica smirked. “Seven more minutes, my dear Robin. And Gotham shall never forget this night.’’

Damian bit back a smug look of his own. She really didn’t know, then – good. Then he might as well kick her ass.

Or he would have, had it not been for the searing pain that suddenly flooded his body making it impossible to move. It felt as if there was acid being poured inside his veins, but he refused to cry out. He’ll be damned if he gave the woman the satisfaction of watching him writhe in pain.

“Now, I am curious to see who’s under that mask of yours.’’ He heard Angela approach him. Damian’s head felt as if it was being held in a vice that was gradually becoming tighter and tighter, threatening to split his skull open.

“Don’t— ‘’ He hissed. “Fucking touch me.’’

The woman crouched in front of him, her perfume doing no favours to his nausea and he felt her fingers ghost over his face. Oh, how he wanted to cut off her hands ---

A bestial, roar suddenly ripped through the air, so powerful that Damian felt the sound reverberate through his body. Angelica clearly felt it as well because the smugness melted away instantly and she jerked, pulling her hand away. Even with a blurry vision, Damian could see the terror in her eyes as she lifted her eyes and looked up behind him---a second roar followed.

The men that were out in the open in the compound looked visibly shaken, as they started taking steps back, poising their rifles at the sudden intruder. Angelica herself, raised to her feet and backtracked, quickly pulling herself behind them. Coward.

“Bagheera!’’ Fay called with unbridled relief, as the beast landed in front of them both, essentially positioning himself as a barrier.

And what a shield he made---especially since he looked to have undergone a transformation. He was easily three times bigger his initial size, and he looked more like a dark spectre than an actual living creature with the blue energy that glowed off his dark fur in mesmerizing patterns.

Ah.

So, the beast was not done being full of surprises it seems.

The two men that were guarding Fay had already stepped away the moment they saw the beast and the girl pulled herself up to her feet. “Bag! Keep them away while I help Robin!’’ She yelled, as she rushed towards him, kneeling next to him a few seconds later.

“Help me?’’ Damian growled. “You know how to remove it?’’ She _definitely_ owned him an explanation.

Fay was shaking, and she looked uncertain for a moment. Then she nodded. “Yes---I think so. But I---I need to look to be sure.’’ She pursued her lips as she stared at him, then around them. They had no tools.

“There.’’ Damian pointed ahead of him, past her. His utility belt---it had been left on top of an empty crate, approximately two hundred feet from them. “You should find what you need in there.’’ Fay nodded, and he watched her rush across the compound to the crate, grabbed the utility belt and come back to him. Bagheera, in the meantime, was busy turning the tables on the Angel and her men, as he easily dodged their bullets and bulldozed his way through them as if they were bowling pins, sending them flying across the compound. He was hurting them enough to incapacitate them but refraining from killing any of them although he could have easily done. _Is that his choice or Fay’s guidance?_

“Lay down, please.’’ Fay instructed, as she pulled one of his shuriken and after he told her where the pain originated from, unzipped the red and yellow-lined main vest, before cutting open the dark shirt underneath. She was uncannily comfortable with the knife, he noted silently, as another wave of searing pain circulated through his body, making his muscles contract and his fists clench tightly.

“Oh… _no_.’’ He heard her whisper,

“What?’’ Damian hissed.

She didn’t respond, and when the pain faltered allowing him to lift his head slightly, he glanced down the length of his body.

There was a dark bump on the left side of his abdomen, with green lines ramifying themselves from it across his stomach, towards his chest. They throbbed, extending, and growing, conquering his body inch by inch. Something _moved_ under the dark mass. There. That was the parasite. Damian couldn’t make her expression fully, but he could tell that she nowhere as disturbed as any other child would have been. _She’d seen this before._ “It’s---it’s not too late.’’ She said. “The spores have entered the fourth stage---‘’ She looked at him, pausing briefly. “That’s when they attach themselves to the---hosts blood vessels. When they reach full maturity— ‘’

“The toxins will be automatically be carried in the bloodstream destroying the host.’’ He finished.

The ground shook---gunshots echoed through the hair and Fay looked up, towards Bagheera where he seemed to be battling armed men trying to take him on using a car. Then she looked back down. “Okay.’’ She muttered. “The---the parasite has not been attached themselves to any---any major arteries from what I can see. And um---there is still a grace period.’’ She glanced back at the utility bell, out of which she had pulled out the taser and the medical glue. “I---I need to cut it out.’’

“Do what you need. And fast.’’ He grunted. “I can feel it moving.’’

He may have spoken too soon.

“I also need to… _electrocute_ you.’’

At that, he looked at her although she couldn’t see his eyes and he could barely make out her face. “It---it’s alive. But if I use electricity or---or heat, like powerful heat, it will shrink. Enough for me to remove it. The parasite will not detach itself easily so I would risk injuring you further.’’ She wasn’t entirely calm, he could hear her voice tremble slightly, but she wasn’t stuttering. Fay always seemed to have a way in overcoming her fear when it came to others’ safety.

He tutted and glanced at the taser. “Do you know how to use that?’’

She nodded hesitantly. “I think so.’’

“Get on with it.’’ And just because he was who he was, “Try not to butcher me.’’ 

It was not a favourable environment for a surgery, but he would risk a post-op infection rather than having a parasitic spore killing him inside out. His body would get through it. It had to.

Fay grabbed the taser, fiddled for a second with the frequencies as he guided her verbally – she’d mentioned she did not need a high frequency for the parasite. Good news for his body, but it also meant he’d be awake through it.

“Okay. I will—I will start now.’’ She said softly, as a warning.

He gritted his teeth, hands clenching by his side as she started cutting into his skin, near to where the dark mass had formed. Fay explained that she had to make sure she didn’t break through the parasite’s outer membrane as it will cause the toxins to flood into his body, and to her credit she worked as delicately as possible to ensure that. _She has done this before—or she was trained to._ Blood dripped down his side, pooling underneath his back.

Damian had significantly higher pain tolerance than most children, so he did not scream when she cut him into him without anaesthetic. He also didn’t scream when she pressed the taser against his side and he felt the burn, and his muscles seized. He couldn’t see what was happening, but he felt the parasite shifting.

He did end up having to bite down on his own hand when her felt her fingers go inside him, and he’d lie if he said there wasn’t a split moment when he felt like maiming her for the way she just went _exploring_ in his damn insides. The parasite felt like a suction cup that removed to budge, and she first tried to do so gently, but she was unsuccessful.

Hard way, then. “I am sorry.’’ He heard her whisper, her voice hitching. Was she crying?

Fay ripped it out with the same intent one would remove a band aid as quick as possible to make it less painful. Except, in this case, it seemed to have the opposite effect. His skin and muscles were being scratched from the inside, and veins felt as they were being _peeled_ out. Were his organs being removed as well or was that just his impression?

He wasn’t proud of it, but he blacked out.

.

Fay stared disgustedly at the dark, _throbbing_ sac in her hands. It was barely the size of her fist, but through the semi-transparent membrane she could see the smaller, round pockets full of toxins. The parasite had multiple thin membranes sprouting from it, and they moved, not unlike an octopus’s tentacles, trying to latch onto her after she forcefully removed it from what it had certainly considered a good host. She quickly threw it away from her, and watched with some wariness as it tried to crawl back, but ultimately gave in.

The _senwi_ was incredibly susceptible when not attached to a host, so its lifespan was incredibly limited the moment she removed it.

Turning her attention back to Damian, she quickly worked on closing his wound---the parasite hadn’t managed to affect any major arteries, but he had lost a worrisome amount of blood. His skin looked better---the dark green lines were fading but Fay could there was some internal bleeding. Veins that will require to be fixed. Damian was also going to need powerful antibiotics and blood transfusions to get his body burning through the remnants of the parasitic spores.

Fay used the small container of skin glue he carried in the utility belt to seal the cut she’d caused him. Not ideal, especially given she’d had to operate in a very unsanitary environment with equally unsanitary hands, but it was better than leaving the site of the surgery open. Fay was no healer, so she couldn’t guarantee she hadn’t nicked something important nor was she able to fully assess the extent of internal damage.

Bagheera’s roar reverberated through the air again and when she looked up, she saw her paladin retreat to where they were standing, growing smaller in size as he did. The battle form always took such a toll on him, so Fay wasn’t surprised, but she was incredibly relieved to see him. The gas had knocked her out before she could see how serious his injury had been, but when Bag finally arrived next to them, she saw that the bullet had only scratched the upper apart of his front right leg. His fur was matted with blood, but it wasn’t a life-threatening injury.

“Bag---‘’ She glanced behind him at the destroyed compound. Most soldiers were laying sprawled about, unconscious and some of the tents were on fire. One of the cars that had been used to gain leverage over Bagheera’s larger form was thrown aside, bent out of shape, as it laid upside down. There was no sight of the Angel. “I am so glad to see you.’’ Fay murmured and smiled as he nudged her head affectionately. She could feel he was just as happy.

“Ngggg….’’ Damian stirred. Bagheera pulled away from her and looked at the boy pensively, before placing his paw gently against the boy’s stomach, careful not to touch the area where he had been injured. He hadn’t fully returned to his usual form, so he was able to tap into his abilities easier---Damian shifted, jaw clenching before his features relaxed as the paladin’s energy seeped into him. Fay knew it would drain him further, but it was his prerogative and she couldn’t bring herself to tell him to stop – Damian was in need of help. 

The two dots marking the place where she’d tased him, and the bruised, raw area of where she’d extracted the parasite from healed ever so slightly—Bagheera grunted, and took his paw away, before he laid down. The blue energy dissipated, and he shrunk to his original form, panting heavily as he took a moment to regain his strength.

Fay knew he’d heal much faster than Damian – but the boy wasn’t out of the woods. It was a temporary solution, enough to buy him time – to what? How were they even going to get out of there? The Angel had gotten away but she doubted she had left the compound. The children were also still captive.

Damian shifted, and Fay watched him rouse to a sitting position. The Robin reached a gloved hand through his dark hair, while the other instinctively touched his side; he glanced at them, then at the lifeless and shrunk carcass of the parasite a few feet away. “You did it, then.’’ He remarked, sounding impressed and Fay just stared at him, unsure what to say. Her hands were red, slick with blood – _his blood_ \- and they were shaking visibly.

The side of her face throbbed, and she felt exhausted even though she hadn’t been the one to fight dozens of armed men nor the one who had to put through with being operated on with no anaesthetic. Fay tried to push down the shame, not because she thought it was out of place but because she didn’t want her paladin to sense it. He had been through enough – last thing he needed was worry about making her feel better (which she knew he would).

Damian rose, zipping his tunic and rearranging his utility belt to hang over his shoulder, rather than around his waist. Fay stood up as well, although her knees felt weak, because it didn’t feel right to rest when he seemed so determined to carry on.

“The woman? ‘’ He asked, hoarsely. “What happened to her?’’

Fay shrugged. “I am not sure.’’ She glanced at her paladin. “Bag?’’

The dark beast heavily raised to his feet and huffed, displeasure rolling from him.

She got away, then.

“I don’t know where the other—other children are.’’

Damian tutted as he checked over his equipment. “Comms are cut off, but the tracker is still on. Someone will be on their way.’’ Although he wasn’t as strong as usual, he still turned and started walking ahead of her in his usual way of leading. He was no less than his demanding self, either. “Let’s move.’’

Fay stared at him, flabbergasted. “Wh-what?’’ Shouldn’t they wait? She was useless, he was wounded and Bagheera was tired. Angel could still have men left to fight for her, so what could they possibly do?

“We both know if I tell you to stay put, you won’t listen.’’ Damian scoffed.

Well, he had a point.

“The Angel wouldn’t run away, not yet. She’ll find out soon – if she hasn’t already – that her plan to launch multiple attacks Gotham have been foiled, and the children will be the only leverage she has left. They need to be rescued.’’ He glanced over at her, then Bagheera. “I will distract them, and you and Bagheera get them out of here. Run as fast as you can, as far away as possible---I will find you after.’’

Bagheera huffed, and Fay stared at him in surprise. Her paladin agreed.

_They…. they both continue to get up. And I can’t even…. help them._

It took Fay a few moments to follow Damian, as she stared at his back with a mixture of awe and shock. Damian had just gone through open surgery in the middle of what was essentially a battlefield, and had a toxic parasite removed from him yet _there he was_. Standing up, even if he was visibly in discomfort and weakened, determined to finish what he came for. Bagheera’s flux wouldn’t have healed him, not entirely – it had merely offered a small boost, just enough healing to take the edge off the pain and stop some of his internal bleeding. But he was still in pain, and Fay had studied the senwi enough to know that it had lingering effects on the body – migraine, severe dehydration, vision problems, internal bleeding. Damian checked all or almost all those boxes, but he pushed through it all and purposefully started walking in the direction of the bunker, located across the compound.

In the weeks they’ve worked with one another, Fay had grown to admire Damian’s intellect and how easily it came to him to just…be excellent. In so many things, leaving aside his mercurial personality. Fay thought she had already managed to associate the persona of Damian Wayne, the Wayne heir with that of Robin, the protector of Gotham. She had thought many times about how he must’ve been trained to get where he is, about his upbringing and what he’d be like in battle. About what kind of warrior he truly was. 

She got her answer.

_He really is…strong. Not just psychically…. but he reminds me of them._

_He’s a better warrior that I’ve ever been._

.

It went smoothly – evacuating the children from the bunker. They had been forced back inside, although not all the way back to their cells and when they returned to the entrance in the silo, there were several more armed guards left behind to patrol. Damian disposed of them with ease, after Bagheera distracted them and Fay watched them, torn between feeling guilty at not aiding them and feeling amazed. 

_Damian was a better partner to Bagheera than she was_. The thought filtered through before she could stop it, and her heart stung.

Fay watched as the children came out, one by one, shivering and crying and chatting amongst themselves frightened. Cora spotted her standing several feet away and Fay approached her. The girl was fine, psychically but she seemed even more erratic than behaviour---Cora looked horrified when she saw Fay’s bruised face and bloody hands. “What—what happened to you?’’

“I—I am okay.’’ She really wasn’t, but she was not affected by the situation the same way they were. Fay was no stranger to blood or battlefields or casualties. If she was rattled, it was primarily because she felt she could have done more. “Robin…. saved me.’’

Said boy checked the bunker, and once he was satisfied that everyone had been evacuated, he loudly ordered for them to follow the ‘wolf’, as he’ll lead them out of the compound. Fay watched Bagheera circle the children, not unlike a wolf herding its sheep and he was met with mixed reactions – some children were scared, others were amazed – before he started moving towards her left. As he walked past her, Bagheera glanced at her and Fay nodded in understanding. She was to follow them as well.

After all, not only she was as defenceless as the other children, but nobody had realized Bagheera was her companion, not Robin’s.

Several hundred feet from them, the chain-link fence had been cut open, leaving a gap for the children to go through and Bagheera stopped in front it, gently nudging those who struggled.

Fay stayed behind when she noticed that Damian’s face had pinched in pain again. The compound was eerily quiet---all guards had been disposed of but there was no trace of the Angel, not even inside the bunker. Her instincts told her that something wasn’t right---was it over already? It seemed…. too easy. Or perhaps that was her impression only given she did not experience the same burdens as either her paladin or Damian.

“No sight of the Angel but I doubt she’s gone far. I will track her down---you go with the others.’’ He remarked, as he approached her, right hand clutching his left-hand side.

Fay stared at him, worried. “You should---get medical attention first.’’ She said quietly. “The sen--parasite can have lasting effects on the body.’’

He smirked lightly. “This is nothing---I have been conditioned to deal with far worse.’’ Damian sounded boastful, and as confident as ever, but Fay wasn’t sure if she believed him entirely. He indeed had a higher resistance than most, and whether it was his own will or psychical condition or both that kept him walking and fighting, it won’t matter for very long. He was still human, as far as she knew and the psychical trauma the senwi inflicted on its host would generally take weeks to recover from. Even the most seasoned of warriors could require time to regain full strength.

Damian, however, wasn’t lying when he said he was at peak psychical condition – the senwi had been in him for approximately six days and although he had entered the fourth stage, the parasite had not yet succeeded in gaining dominion over his body. Fay had studied cases of victims that died after two or three days after being infected, but it was generally due to the hosts already having a compromised immunity system or other pre-existing medical issues. Even so, she had a newfound respect for the boy in front of her.

Bagheera growled---and when they both looked up, she saw that the children – thirty-four in total – were now on the other side of the fence. Not everyone had been kidnapped from the Academy. Damian gestured for her to follow the others and she did as she was instructed, walking in the direction of her paladin as he stood waiting before the gap in the fence. He was alert as ever, but Fay could sense his exhaustion when she finally reached him – her paladin himself did not have much energy to run on.

Fay could at least help the others navigate through the woods if it came down it. She was good at that, at least.

She was just on the other side of the fence, watching Bagheera ready to step through, Damian watching from a few feet behind when both paladin and boy suddenly tensed. Bagheera pulled back, turning to look down the direction they came from, a ferocious growl erupting from his throat.

“Yeah. I can feel it as well.’’ Damian remarked, looking in the same direction.

For a moment, there was nothing there---in that destroyed, burning compound, except for the limp bodies of the guards scattered everywhere. Fay felt it too---it was a visceral feeling, not something she could put in words but the hair stood up on the back of her neck and on her arms, an uncomfortable knot sitting low in her stomach. Adrenaline pumped in her veins, instincts going haywire. 

She was all too familiar with what it meant---Fay’s body had been conditioned to recognize danger, but what she felt was so much more. A terrible sense of dread filled her. 

It was the calm before the storm.

Just like _that_ night.

Angela reappeared moments later, stepping from the shadows – her cape was gone, and her suit was no longer immaculate, but stained with dirty and blood. Her hair was also out of its pins, wildly falling around her face and although Fay couldn’t see her face from that distance, the tone of her voice spoke volumes of the mental state she was in. She sounded like a woman who’d realised her plans had all failed….

“You stupid brats! How?!’’ She screamed. “ _HOW DID YOU KNOW?_ ’’

….and she was definitely not happy.

The answer was Fay, of course. She was the reason why Damian and the others knew, but naturally, he’d never expose her. “Your plan was stupid to begin with. Did you really think you’d get away?’’ Hm. Maybe he shouldn’t bait the crazy, armed woman. Damian glanced at Bagheera and gestured him to go. The paladin huffed and turned, stepping through the gap in the fence before walking towards the forest. Fay urged the other children to follow him but also kept looking back at Damian. It didn’t feel right leaving him behind, not in the state he was in.

He didn’t turn around to look at her, but she saw his hand behind his back signalling her to go.

Feeling like a coward, she did, following the group of children and the paladin deeper into the forest.

.

Damian, for his part approached the woman, shuriken in one hand. It was well past midnight which means the black-outs had taken place---but the attacks wouldn’t have been successful. Because Nightwing and the others had already been anticipating them, so they had taken precautions to ensure that none of the criminals that Angela recruited would even get the chance to act. With the children released and her men defeated, Angela had no leverage. No power.

The Angel has fallen, and she didn’t even see it coming.

“It’s over.’’ He snarled when he spotted the gun in the woman’s hand, although she didn’t point it at him.

The woman’s eyes were dark, furious, her brows furrowed. She looked unhinged. Damian wondered what she’d think if she knew her plans have been foiled by a twelve-year old girl that had been in her hands all along. Angela was frightened too, he could tell, from the way her eyes darted over to his abdomen, realizing that the parasite had also failed in killing him. That must have been her ace in the cards, thinking that she got one over Robin---and if it hadn’t been for Fay, she would have.

Fay had done more than she realized for Gotham. And him, too.

Regardless of how she figured it all out and who she truly was, he had to make sure she survived along with the other children. Even if he was still running a fever, and the pain was back twofold, and his vision was blurring again. The girl was right---the parasite had affected his body significantly and he needed time to recover, but that was not an option.

It was not in his nature to back down.

Not when Angela started running away, in what he initially deemed a desperate attempt at escaping. He followed but placed distance between themselves when he realized she was heading for the small building tucked to one side of the compound across from the bunker’s entrance. It was large enough to accommodate a couple of cars at most and the doors, sealed by an electronic system, had stayed shut throughout the commotion. When Damian initially arrived at the site, he had inspected that area as well – the building was largely empty save for what looked like supplies – uniforms, fuel, boxes of food– but there were no life signs. There were no windows, either.

“You’ve ruined everything---‘’ She hissed, eyes wild and lipstick smeared across one side of her face. She was starting to resemble the Joker, but she had nothing on him when it came to being mad. “But you won’t make it out of here alive, that I promise you.’’

The Angel pressed a few commands on her phone, and the ground vibrated---it sounded as if something was opening. From inside the building.

An underneath passage?

The doors to the building were pushed open by the woman, or when inhuman growls started echoing---not as intense as Bagheeras, but there were multiple sources driving them.

It was not in his nature to back down.

Not even when from the darkness of the building, several bodies emerged---not human. Maybe once, they had been, but someone had taken that humanity away to replace it with beastly characteristics. Their bodies were deformed, an amalgamation of fur and spikes sticking out, jaws contorting to accommodate a sickening number of fangs albeit they appeared to be of different size and shape. Some of the beasts had horns sticking out of their heads, others had hooves for hands and feet. They looked as if someone had tried to fuse their body with different animals, but the creator ultimately decided to just throw random animal parts together.

They all had one thing in common, though.

Their pitch-black eyes, just like Finnegan had been, months earlier. They locked onto his form, unblinkingly as jaws parted in hungry growls, predators locking their gaze on the prey.

That day was just full of surprises.

_I can’t stand Halloween._

.

Bagheera had stopped abruptly, although they were making progress on putting the compound behind them. It had not started raining, which was a positive, but the air was frigid, so it was imperative that the children obtained medical attention as soon as possible, before the hypothermia settled in. Fay watched as her paladin turned to look behind them, as they exited into a large field that had been seemingly prepped to allow for helicopters to land.

There was one not too far from them – even if Fay could navigate one, they would not all fit in it, so she dismissed the idea as soon as it popped in her mind. 

Something was wrong, she could tell, because her paladin’s agitation increased again, and the fur stood up on his back.

“Why---why are we stopping?’’

“Is something wrong?’’

“I am really cold.’’

“What if nobody finds us?’’

“Where is Robin?’’

Cora, who had stayed close to her throughout the trek, gripped her forearm, cold hands shaking. “Fay---why is the wolf stopping?’’

_Danger. He’s sensing danger._

“I---I don’t know.’’ Fay lied, even as she felt her own panic build again.

It was too familiar.

Too alike to that night when Maysoon found itself under siege. When it all happened, she and Bagheera too were in the jungle, away from the main population just like they were sitting in the woods in that moment. And just like that night, there were explosions echoing through the air---and moments later, clouds of smoke raising to the sky.

The children’s agitation increased; their fear palpable once again. Bagheera turned to them, and he looked torn between continuing to lead them and going back.

 _Because he was a warrior, too_ and a true warrior does not leave another one behind. Not if it can be helped.

He huffed at her, drawing her attention, then he glanced towards the field---there was a hiker’s path marked by an old placard across from where they were standing. Fay could make out only part of what was written on it, but it was enough to understand that the path would take them to the nearest point of civilisation within only a couple of miles.

Bagheera wanted her to take the lead so he could go help Damian.

If he didn’t, the boy might die.

Tears gathered in Fay’s eyes, and she nodded at her paladin reluctantly.

_You shouldn’t have to do this on your own. I am your partner, and you are mine._

_Yet…._

She watched as the paladin turned and starting back in the direction they came from.

_You are the one protecting me, always._

Shakily, she pointed out to the other children that there was a sign and if they took the hiker’s path, it would most likely lead them to someone who could help. It didn’t take much to convince them to go in that direction, although some were hesitant to venture back amongst the trees without the wolf to guide them. They understood Bag was their ally, that he could keep them safe.

Now they were all on their own once again.

It was truly, terribly shameful how Fay, born and bred in a world of warriors, could not gather the strength to be their leader, to show strength and inspire courage in them and instead she trailed at the back of the group, shivering and struggling with her own fear.

But when she heard a familiar roar echo through the skies, she ended up turning around and running back towards the compound, even as a new panic attack unfurled.

.

Heart pounding, the adrenaline pushed her to run through the dark trees, the sounds from the compound guiding her back. She paid no mind as branches scratched against her skin, drawing blood or how her marks ached. The flux coiled underneath her skin, and the bracelets responded in kind, activating, burning her wrists---trying to tame it down.

She ignored all of it.

_Please_

_Please don’t let it be like that night_

_Please_

She came out of the woods, stepped through the gap in the chain-link fence and ran across the compound until she finally arrived where Damian and Bagheera were fighting for their lives.

Bagheera roared. He had switched back to his battle form, and she watched as he jumped out of the way avoiding the attack of—a--- _was that a chimera?_

Damian himself was battling two, his body dwarfed by theirs, but he held his own, even if he was not as agile as she had seen him earlier. His arm had been injured, three slashes that went through the Kevlar and cut into his skin---his uniform was stained with blood all the way from his shoulder to the elbow. Fay watched, darkly hypnotised.

“You idiot!’’ Damian yelled angrily when he saw her. “What are you doing back here!’’

Fay didn’t move, shaking as tears started streaming down her face. She wasn’t seeing just Bagheera or Damian fighting. She could see all the warriors that had fallen protecting Maysoon, the rivers that had turned red with blood, the bodies – men, women, young, elderly – lifeless on the ground, some torn apart while others had taken their last breaths holding onto their loved ones. Fay could feel the scent of burnt flesh and toxic fumes, and her ears were ringing---children were crying, and paladins roared, and warriors’ weapons clinked.

The jungle screamed too, that night.

Fay collapsed to her knees, clutching her head with her hands as she tried to regain a semblance of control, as she tried to remind herself that they were just flashbacks.

But how could she succeed, when she heard her paladin’s pained cries as he was forced to revert to his old form when one of the chimeras – boar-like in appearance – threw him violently on the ground. Bagheera rolled away, putting distance between him and the beast. When he raised to his feet, one of his paws was kept bent. It must have been broken. There were new injures on his body too---blood dripping from his hind legs and back. Damian pushed Fay out of the way, just as one of the beasts appeared from her left; a large, clawed hand swinging at her head.

After that, Fay remained on the ground, on hands and knees, and watched as he fought the beast. Even if Damian took his opponent down, there were several more approaching them. Bagheera was incapacitated, drained, and had switched to defensive, focusing on evading the chimera’s persistent attacks rather than attacking.

Fay watched helplessly.

Just like _that_ night.

She watched, as others fought and fought and kept rising even if their bodies were being pushed beyond their limits.

And all she could do was curl up in on herself, crying, as various voices invaded her mind and the panic attack assailed her in what was the worst one yet in weeks.

_“Run---you need to run, Fay!’’_

_“The barriers around the capital are failing—‘’_

_“Mother—Where is my mother? WHERE ARE THEY?’’_

_“Maysoon is--- falling.’’_

_“---we are all going to die.’’_

_“HELP ME---!’’_

_‘The quicker you accept what happened, the better.’’_

_‘You loser—why didn’t just die along with everyone else?’_

_“You are a disgrace.’’_

_“The girl will never master the flux. She’s too broken.’’_

_‘’From now on, the bracelets will help you with control.’’_

_‘’I have decided to send you North. I think it will be good for you---to be away from here.’’_

_“…. You are not my sister. We’re not really a family. Not anymore.’’_

_“This is all your fault, Fay.’’_

_“What…. have you done?’’_

_“My darling fey, remember that no matter what happens, we will always be proud of you.’’_

_“You are proof that people can change.’’_

It wasn’t fair.

It wasn’t fair that her parents died.

It wasn’t fair that she was left to deal with the aftermath, alone. Or that her brother was no longer her brother.

It wasn’t fair that the other children treated her with cruelty just because she wasn’t what they expected; that people wanted her to have answers to their grief when she was still processing hers.

It wasn’t fair that the Elders looked down on her, and clan leaders judged her, and her family found it so easy to move on. That they could not understand that she was not like them; that she had always been different, so she did not feel things the way they did.

It wasn’t fair that she was broken still, that everyone had a different solution for how she could be better but lost their patience when they proved unsuccessful. 

It wasn’t fair that she had to stand there, on that cold ground watching as her paladin tried to get to her, to protect her and comfort her even though he was injured. Even though it was her fault she was putting him in that position where he had to worry about her. Again. Again, and again and again.

It wasn’t fair that the boy with green eyes invaded her life like that, forcing her to revaluate the limbo she had been existing in, to make her experience emotions she had thought herself undeserving of or had forgotten about. That he could unnerve and tire her out, that he refused to leave her alone even after he’s seen just how weak and pathetic she is, that he didn’t want them to be friends yet she had ended up seeing him as one. She knew why it felt different---perhaps for the first time ever, she wasn’t the one chasing someone in acknowledging her. He sought her out, wanted to know who she was and what she thought and why she felt the way she did. Even with Titoh it had not been like that. Others just tricked her in thinking they wanted all those things before revealing they had an agenda of their own or were playing games.

It wasn’t fair that she was raised to be a warrior, yet she was uselessly watching as Damian placed himself as a shield before her, even if he was bleeding and injured and struggled to stand up.

_I am so sick of it._

The emotion-not-to-be-named that constantly bubbled underneath the sorrow and grief and fear erupted. Like magma, fiery and consuming, it crawled through her body, filling her veins. The bracelets glowed, and scorched her skin, and in that moment, she despised them with such a passion that it made her want to scream.

It wasn’t fair that they had been restraining her flux, in a way that was not natural, taking away the little defence she was meant to have.

It wasn’t fair that it had been easier to put those bracelets on her rather than helping her. They were killing her, and she was literally worlds away from her homeland and it wasn’t fair.

Flames curled in the pit of her stomach, and the fear shrunk back as anger took over. Unforgiving. Unrepentant. Powerful, in ways that fear would never be. Dangerous, oh so dangerous because in moments like that, Fay wasn’t filled with just self-hatred. It wasn’t all directed just at herself, but the world as well. The anger was always there, of course, but she rarely ever acknowledged it, her guilt often a sentry that reminded her that she had more reasons to blame herself than the world.

In that moment, watching Damian crouch before her, arms extended and preparing himself to take on yet another blow, Fay found she didn’t want to deny the anger anymore. It had caused her to lose control before---had resulted in people getting hurt---but even when she ignored it, people still got hurt.

So, what was the point?

Fay was angry. With herself and the world.

And she wanted to hurt those who hurt those that were dear to her.

Bagheera was her precious partner and she had failed to do her part.

Damian was…. he was the boy with green eyes who had been kind to her and coloured her life in a way that she didn’t expect. He was important to her.

_I want to…._

_I want to fight back._

_I don’t want to watch people die in front of me again._

_I don’t want to be useless._

Her marks throbbed, and she felt her flux grow in intensity, fuelled by the waves of fury that coursed in her veins, defiant against the seals on the bracelets. The metal was shrinking around her thin wrists, the runes feeling like hot brands against her skin---she smelt burnt flesh. 

She ignored the pain.

And got up.

She could feel it now. Stronger than she had in months.

The energy that coursed in her body was… _incredible_. Like water to a man’s parched throat. Like food to an empty, starving stomach. Like rain to a burning forest. Like sun to a plant that’s been pushed in the shadow for too long. 

The bracelets would not allow that power for long---and she wasn’t strong enough to summon her flux for long.

But maybe, just maybe, it would be enough.

.

Damian stared, lips parting yet no sound came out.

_…. No._

The seven-foot beast that he had been fending off, stopping it from tearing Fay apart – stupid girl, what was she doing back there – had recovered quickly from Damian’s hard kick to its chest, which sent it rolling backwards several times. Angrier than before, the creature roared, jaws parting wide to reveal shark-like teeth and its muscled arms contracted, as it charged back at him. It had several advantages over him: weight, height and in that moment, stamina as well. Its inhuman strength was also an issue – Damian knew he might be able to push both them out of the way, but he’ll likely incur more injures in the process. Not particularly good for his body given he had lost a significant amount of blood already, and the pain on his left-hand side flared whenever he moved his torso.

It couldn’t be helped. He had to keep Fay safe---and if Batman or Nightwing didn’t show up soon enough, he’ll need to think of a plan to get both girl and beast out of there.

_Except._

Damian hadn’t even felt Fay move from behind him, let alone have the time to react when the girl suddenly appeared in front of him.

The beast swung its arm, curved dark claws like a bear’s, coming down on the girl’s left shoulder, scratching through cloth and flesh. Blood sprayed—a few drops hitting Damian’s forehead and cheek—but she stayed up, unfaltering like a statue. Her back was turned to him, and with her right hand she was gripping the beast’s thick forearm. The claws had cut into her skin, deep enough to cause her to bleed significantly but….

…. she had stopped him from cutting through her.

It was a dichotomy, watching a scrawny, trembling mess of a girl like her holding back what was the limb of a creature weighing easily over three hundred pounds of muscle.

Her hands were…. glowing? Green energy swirled around them---not just her hands, he realized. It was swirling around her body, ever so faintly, forcing the debris and dust near her shoes to rise in the air, circling around her like a personal vortex, following the path of the energy.

“Don’t touch him.’’ Fay snarled, staring the beast back unflinchingly even as it bared its fangs at her, foam forming at the corner over its mouth. The other arm swung, but it never got the chance of reaching her because she moved, with an agility he would have never thought her capable of.

Fay removed the claws from her shoulder, forcefully pushing it away, then bent her knees, pulling her right arm back. Fingers were coiled in a tight fist, the energy glowing stronger around it, right before she rotated her hips to flung it towards the creature’s chest. It went flying backwards, as if pulled by invisible strings, but Damian could feel the energy that reverberated off her – just like Bagheera, it appeared something that came from withing her body.

The beast was sent hundreds of feet backwards, and this time around, it struggled to get back up, affected by the blow.

Fay flinched visibly as she removed her ripped sweatshirt, leaving herself in a dark vest even if the temperature outside was dangerously close to zero. The claws had left deep holes along the line of her shoulder---she was bleeding profusely, rivulets of blood sliding down her back and arm.

She was also glowing. Or rather---the marks littering her skin were.

Well, that answered his question as to what she was hiding underneath the baggy clothes. Damian hadn’t been entirely wrong---there were scars too, but he had not expected to see the strange patterns on her skins. They looked like tattoos almost, and they glowed green---moving, and shifting across her skin, changing patterns and shape. The bracelets, too were, glowing but---they seemed to be burning her skin. Blood dripped down her hands, and blisters formed from under the thin metal bands.

_The bandages she wore around her wrist….it was because of the bracelets._

They are…. hurting her? When using her…. He wasn’t sure what it was that she was using. The energy was powerful, and it seemed to be tied in with the presence of the marks on her skin.

The commotion had drawn the attention of the remaining beasts. Three to the left, two to the right, two coming from straight ahead. All their attention was on the girl, and he watched as she braced herself.

She was going to….

She is going to take them on alone.

Damian opened his mouth, because regardless of her abilities, she was not in any state to be taking all beasts on her own.

_Or was she?_

Not that he was able to aid her – his vision was intermittently blurry, and his body locked, not unlike it did earlier when the parasite had a paralytic effect on him. Fay did mention that he would be experiencing subsequent effects. It would have been good if she mentioned he would experience partial paralysis again.

Shit.

Bagheera managed to crawl over him, the beast as tired and injured as himself but he allowed Damian to lean on him.

“Get him away from here, Bag.’’ Fay instructed suddenly, not turning around to face them as she remained standing where she was, watching the beasts get closer. Damian didn’t allow the paladin to pull him too far, but the beast still had more strength than he did, so they ended up compromising with one another. The boy could tell Bag did not want to leave the girl completely alone, and they both watched.

Damian would have lied if he said his attention wasn’t absorbed completely by what happened next.

.

The world is made of energy.

Everything is connected, even when it doesn’t feel that way.

Everything is one, and one is everything.

And the flux is nothing but that---energy. A sacred connection between mind, body, and soul, a gateway between an individual and the world. Elemental energies being the most traditional ones – water, air, fire, earth. It differed for everyone – no one’s flux is the same as another’s just like each person has a different thumb print than others. Fay herself had displayed an affinity towards air and water since she was a child---but the flux was not static. It changed and evolved and mutated as a person grew and changed, so to fulfil its potential, it takes one years of rigorous training and study, as well as continuous self-exploration.

For Fay, being anything less than exceptional was not an option---not given her lineage. However, even though her flux had been particularly strong since she was an infant, her control over it had left much to desire. Her emotional nature had often been deemed as the cause behind it, while others have theorised that her flux had simply not stabilised yet. She remained volatile.

Fay had a complicated relationship with her flux---it was a fundamental part of who she was, but at times that only caused her to be further confused about who and what she was meant to be. She often was told that the flux was something she was meant to control, but her mother instead taught her that the flux will not feel as something she must tame when it’ll fully develop. It will be ‘as easy as breathing’.

Her mother certainly made it look easy but then again, Fay really wasn’t like either of her parents. Not when it came to prodigious talent (which she had none).

Weeks into having been severed from connecting with her flux, Fay felt as if she was reborn. She felt as she once used to be---the Fay of old. The bracelets were like a cruel master trying to forcefully stop a wild creature from acting as nature intended and it wasn’t just by burning her wrists. If anything, that was the least worrisome effect they had on her – Fay was in pain. She could feel it in every single cell of her body, in her muscles and organs and bones, only bearable because of the adrenaline that rushed in her veins. The anger and desire to protect Bagheera and Damian were fuelling her, but it was temporary, so she had to make haste.

Holding her grip on it was harder than usual – it was like trying to keep her hands-on ice even after it started numbing her skin or putting them in scalding water and trying to push through the pain. She knew that because that had been part of her training growing up. The seals tried to snuff it out, and she fought to keep herself tethered to the energy with just as much focus as she was fighting those beasts.

Fay had never considered herself as having been born with the ‘song of war’ in veins despite coming from a long line of warriors. She had never enjoyed the idea of harming others, nor was interested in killing, even if others around her had been indoctrinated in believing that it was the price, they all paid in exchange for security and prosperity. Ironically, some saw peace was only achievable through war.

She didn’t realize how much she’d missed using her flux until that moment---it was exhilarating being connected with the world around her in that manner. The bracelets had rendered her blind and deaf to the energies but for those brief moments in that compound, she felt…not powerless. Fay was lighter than she had been in Maysoon, and she’d lost significant muscle mass as well as stamina---but using the flux she managed to make up for it, even if she knew she’d later face the consequences of it. Her body was damaged, had been for months, and her mind was frail still. She couldn’t comment on the state of her soul but the temporary balance she forged was like putting paper tape over a crack on the earth and hope it won’t break too soon.

Objectively speaking, the beasts she was fighting, could not hold a candle to the threats that existed in her homeland, but she did not want to underestimate them. They were driven by primal instincts, so they would keep standing up, again and again, until they devoured everything in their way. If she could not incapacitate them, Fay had no choice but to kill them. They were beyond saving unfortunately---they could no longer go back to the humans they once used to be, condemned, and reduced to mindless, hungry beasts as they were. Fay had not killed a human being before, but she had killed.

In self-defence, only. Hunting was never something she wanted to partake in---not if it resulted in maiming an innocent living creature.

Years of training, hundreds of hours spent going through the same motions resurfaced and guided her as she moved. She ducked and dodged and swirled on her feet, not quite flying, but using the wind as her carrier, allowing herself to jump higher than her body would normally allow, to escape strong swings of the beasts claws and evade them in a manner that only antagonised them further. In a way, given her small stature compared to theirs, she really was but an annoying fly that kept escaping their grasp.

It started raining---and she felt the water pour down on her body, cleansing the blood and grime and sweat.

Water is flexible. Water is as soft or as strong as she wants it to be, because when she connects with water, she is water. And water is her. Fay moulded her flux, connecting with the energy of water, drawing it up from the puddles forming around them.

The water that floated in air changed state, shifting to hard sheets of ice which she unyieldingly used to cut through two of the beasts—at first, she had attempted to keep them away from her, but they did not even seem to register the ice protruding through their limbs and torsos’ so ultimately she had to repeat the process, only to have the ice deliver the final blow. Water and air were the elements she’d always found easiest using so it was no different in that moment – there were many ways she could combine the two elements, although it wasn’t easy doing so when she had to constantly move. The chimeras were incredibly persistent. 

Fire was not an option. Not for her. That element had always eluded her. Before her parent’s death she was told she lacked the conviction to control fire, but after she had too much of it. It was an element she feared, so she did not even consider using it.

Earth had been her mother’s element---and Fay herself had a neutral perspective on it, although when she was younger, she had desired to be as proficient in its use as her mother. To have that in common. But earth was not as fluid as water, or as responsive as the wind---it required force, psychical and emotional and mental that she always lacked, in one category or the other. Fay found herself using it in that moment, attempting to destroy the ground beneath their feet when she crouched down and forcefully pushed an energy-infused fist against it. The ground shook, and cracked, splitting open, enough to trap another one of the beasts but it wasn’t deep enough to keep it bay. Not for long.

A stupid decision on her end, because not only she ended up coughing blood, pins and needles filling her chest but the beast, angered by the attempt at burying it down, immediately attacked. Distracted by the pain flaring inside of her, Fay momentarily lost control of the flux and was defenceless when a muscled hooved leg swung at her. Elbows bent and kept high, she tried to protect her head with her arms, but the blow jostled her bones in a way that made her feel as if he was punching right through her skeleton.

She went flying, and landed roughly against the wet ground, rolling over and over on herself. Fay barely had time to register before the beast was hovering on her, clawed hand ready to take a swing at her jugular. She rolled out of the way and summoned the flux back forth even if it felt like liquid fire in her body, to direct a gust of wind at the beast, sending it flying across the compound. She watched Bagheera pounce on it, not giving it a chance to get back up, as he wrapped powerful jaws against its neck and ripped his throat open. Punishment for the creature had tried to do same the with her.

It wasn’t over, however – four more to go.

Damian was on the ground, looking as if he struggled to stay conscious. It was honestly a feat that he still was awake. 

Fay could not stop. Not yet, even if she was in agony.

Even if the bracelets were bound to kill her. 

.

Damian gritted his teeth, silently willing himself to get back up. He could hear Mother’s voice, and grandfather’s too, mocking him, telling him that he was laying down, needing to be saved like a mere civilian not the warrior he was meant to be. But his body refused to cooperate. He was forced to stay on the ground, Bagheera fending off the beasts as one of them switched their attention from Fay back to them.

With good reason---the girl was danger.

She was deadly, too.

Fay fought—like she had been raised to fight in that manner. Not in the way he did. She moved differently, channelling the energy to control the elements rather than relying on martial arts or weapons, although she seemed more than capable of using just her body for defence as well. He’d later blame it on the blood loss, but he found it…. fascinating. Not just the way she seemed to shift from one element to another – water and air primarily – or the way she shifted their state to accommodate her fighting needs.

It was fascinating because that girl, injured and bleeding, using floating shards of ice to decapitate monsters several times as big as her---that girl. It was the same one he’d known for months now; the one who stuttered and suffered from panic attacks that were triggered easily; the one who cried easily and shied away from making eye contact with people most times. The girl who’d trip over her own feet clumsily, who was far too sensitive for her own good. The girl who is afraid all the time, the one who told him that hadn’t yet figured how to overcome her own pain, the one who told him that her life did not matter more than his.

That girl was the same one who was in front of him, fighting with so much determination that it was hard not to stare (not that he had much of a choice in that moment, anyway, but do that).

Two more down. She had moved back to where he was, putting herself as a shield between him and the two remaining monsters. The boar-like one, and the one with claws like an eagle. They were particularly vicious. There was a reason they had managed to survive while the others ultimately fell victim to her. They were slightly smarter---they adapted. Damian wondered if she had noticed that as well.

Fay could not go on for much longer. While at the beginning of the fight she had moved quickly, barely allowing any of the enemies to get in proximity with her, throughout she became more sluggish, adopting a stationary stance on several occasions. She was in pain, he realized, and the use of her abilities was putting a significant toll on her. He watched her double over, and vomit blood, face contorted in pain and her hands were…. a gruesome sight.

_…. the bracelets are reacting whenever she uses her abilities._

Yet there she was, standing between him and the last two beasts. She was shaking, and when she extended her arms, as to form a barrier, he got an up-close of just how damaged her skin really was. The bracelets had left her with third-degree burns, with blisters forming halfway through her forearm. Her palms were just as affected, and her hands---well, they were a sight in themselves.

“Stop…’’ He found himself muttering, hating himself for how weak and pitiful it came out. “Those things on your hands---they’re affecting you whenever you use---your abilities.’’ He hissed.

Fay didn’t look at him when she responded. “I know.’’

Something clenched around his heart. Side effects of his injuries, of course. What else could it be? 

“I don’t need your protection.’’ He snarled, directing his anger at her inevitably, when it was himself that he felt angry with. “So, I demand that you stop it.’’ Because she was so good at following orders. Fists clenched, and body responding frustratingly slow to his brain’s commands, he forced himself up, wobbling slightly. He couldn’t---couldn’t allow her to kill herself just to protect him.

She had no right to stand like that before him, sacrificing herself for him.

“Stop it, Fay.’’ He called. “I am up. I can---‘’ He couldn’t anything because the pain in his side and shoulder made him double back over. Damian sunk back to his knees, cursing out loud.

Fay moved again, as the beasts did. He watched her struggle, far more than previously---being thrown to the ground, her legs and back being slashed by one of the beasts’ claws, her own attacks weaker than before. The monsters dodged them easier, had started to predict her movements. Moments later, she ended up rolling near to where he was. She coughed violently, and she pat blood on the floor.

His chest felt tight again, at the sight of it.

“Stop.’’ If he was going to die, he’d rather not have it at anyone’s expense. Not hers. “Don’t be stupid and get out of here.’’ He growled. “I will survive but you won’t if you keep---‘’

_“No, I won’t!’’_

He blinked. He wasn’t sure if he’d ever heard her angry before. Or speak in such a tone. 

She got up again.

Fay was bleeding from several different locations on her body, and there was not an inch of her skin that wasn’t covered in blood or grime. The rain did little in washing it away.

It also did poorly in hiding away the tears running down her face.

Was she crying out of pain?

But she kept going. Why did she insist on staying there, and put herself through that? She owed him nothing. Least of all to Robin. If she and Bagheera took off in that moment, the two remaining beasts would be far too busy with him to chase after them. Even if they did, Fay had a better chance at escaping with her life than if she kept using her abilities.

Was it that stupid self-righteousness of hers at play? Or the continuous guilt that she seemed to wallow in?

“I won’t blame you.’’ He found himself saying as he once again stared at her back. “So, you can go.’’ 

“I am not leaving.’’ Fay announced determinedly as she channelled the energy back in her hands. The bracelets sizzled against her skin. “And I won’t run away.’’

She glanced at him over her shoulder and smiled.

She _fucking smiled._ Not one of those small nervous, or polite smiles. It was a genuine one – like the one he’d seen on her face that day on the roof when she was standing in the rain. Wider, this time, reaching slightly her eyes.

“Thank you.’’

What the fu-?

No.

Was she really planning on….?

“Stop it!’’ Damian yelled. “Stop it, right now!’’

Fay didn’t listen, moving forward as energy shifted powerfully around her. She was going in for one final strike, determined on taking both beasts down. 

_‘My life doesn’t matter more than yours.’_

Even if it may kill her.

Damian stared perplexed at the energy channelling towards her hands as she pushed it violently forward, hitting the two beasts point-blank. The burst of energy had been stronger than anything she’d used previously, and the boy watched as the creatures were thrown over into the ground, the wave pushing them down with a force that made the earth give in, cracking and erupting beneath them.

Bagheera had jumped over to him, shielding him from the gust of wind that followed bringing dust and small debris along with it.

Then silence.

Damian coughed, and stood up, using Bagheera to support himself, then looked at where the explosion occurred.

The two beasts were dead lying in a shallow crater of her own making, blood pooling underneath them.

Fay was on the ground, too, fallen to one side, back to them.

She didn’t look like she was alive either.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next update will be in a few days, most likely over the weekend.


	16. Diminuendo

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait, everyone. It has taken me longer than expected to write this chapter. 
> 
> Many, many thanks to my Beta-reader AegyoButPsycho, who had to put up with my many grammar errors but has made the chapter flow so much better. 
> 
> Enjoy! And as always, I welcome your comments.

**Chapter 16:** Diminuendo

_“One never gets to know a person's character better than by watching his behaviour during decisive moments.  
It is always only danger which forces the most deeply hidden strengths and abilities of a human being to come forth.’’_

\- Stefan Zweig

.

.

.

When Dick informed him of what was happening in Gotham, Bruce had returned as a matter of urgency to his city. He did not have the full details but it appears Damian’s investigation on the black-outs has unearthed a far more sinister plan put in motion by someone identifying themselves as the ‘Angel’, the presumed-dead daughter of a mafia member. Damian himself had not disclosed to Dick how he came across the USB key that ultimately allowed them to foil the several attacks across the city, but the former Robin had drawn his conclusions.

It was a girl – Fay Kipling. It was unclear how she became involved as Dick himself was under the impression she was but a civilian, but Fay had been kidnapped along with other children from Gotham Academy. His son - _and the girl’s dog?_ – tracked them forty miles outside of the main city, at an old abandoned military bunker which the Angel appears to have used to set up headquarters. Nightwing and Red Robin arrived shortly after he did – the thirty-four missing children were found scattered down an old hiking path through the forest. They were frightened, wet and cold but otherwise fine. No injuries, except for some minor scrapes and bruises.

Bruce himself went straight for the compound; its location easily identifiable by the rings of smoke rising through the trees.

It looked like a war zone.

One that had parts of what appeared to be human-animal hybrid monsters laying about.

And…. ice? It was partially melted, but it was clear it had been used as a weapon, judging by the large ice picks protruding from the chest of some of the creatures. A fierce battle had taken place and it finished halfway through the compound where a crater the size of a small car and approximately two meters depth held two of the beasts. His son was near that crater, kneeling on the ground next to a small body. A girl. Fay Kipling. Both children were a sight---clothes tattered, covered in blood. Drenched too. The rain had eased into a light drizzle and the blood pooling beneath the girl’s blood was carried away in rivulets. There was a dark wolf standing next to Damian and the girl, and the animal appeared to be just as injured.

Damian looked up, with a rare look of distress. “Father---her heart stopped but I managed to resuscitate her. She needs medical attention, _now_.’’ He did too, but he was unconcerned with that. His son, the boy who was raised to be a ruthless killing machine, was more worried with the health and safety of a child than his own.

“We will get her to a hospital---‘’

“No.’’ Damian interrupted. “She’s not like the other children.’’ The boy paused, and he seemed to struggle with his words. “She’s _my_ responsibility.’’ He said, finally in a tone that allowed no compromise about where they’ll take her.

Less than twenty minutes later, they were back at the Batcave.

The wolf, as injured as he was, had been incredibly reluctant to leave the girl’s side but when Damian reassured that him that she was safe with them, the creature had looked at him, then at Bruce. He stepped away, limping as he did, and sat down near the medical table where the girl had been placed, giving space to Alfred so he could start assessing the extent of her injuries.

Bagheera was his name. And he was an empath. One that had aided them in the battle, according to his son, while the girl was performing surgery on him to remove a parasite that had formed near his pancreas because of a cut, he’d received days earlier. And that was all before she risked her life to protect him, using abilities that seemed to have been sealed away by the bracelets she was wearing. Damian didn’t explicitly confirm she had saved him, nor he showed the emotion he did when Bruce found him in that compound, but there was no need to. He had heard the subtle undertones in the boy’s voice – respect, concern, perhaps even admiration – when he talked about how she took on several of the beastly creatures, even if her body deteriorated throughout the battle. Bruce also did not need to have to hear it from Damian’s mouth to know that Fay had been in the state because she had protected him.

The boy saw her as his responsibility because she’d almost lost her life _for_ him.

With Alfred busy working on Fay, Bruce had assessed Damian’s own injuries – the boy blacked out not long after he’d offered the brief explanation, and _after_ the butler reassured him that he’ll do everything in his power to ensure Fay comes through. Damian hadn’t asked, but his refusal to give in to his exhaustion and wounds had spoken volumes of his otherwise well-hidden concern. Alfred had ultimately put him under, for his own good.

The parasite had done number on his body. Fay had managed to remove it, but there were lingering traces of the toxin in his bloodstream which a strong course of antibiotics had addressed easily. The cut she’d made onto his side was infected but the medical glue had held well despite constant movement on his end. There were signs of internal bleeding which seemed to have…receded, but the scans showed how deeply the parasite had taken root.

It had ramified itself like a tree’s branches and left alone any longer, the parasite would have protruded through his arteries and organs.

Bruce had found lifeless sac at the compound and had carefully brought it back to have it analysed. Nothing came up on the database, but it bore similarities with the parasitic fungus known as Cordyceps, generally affecting ants. The internal organs become food, and the exoskeleton a protective shelter in which the fungus thrives before ultimately reaching maturity and consuming the host entirely. After being removed from Damian’s body, it had died completely but the remnants of toxins that he had tested showed they had a strong paralytic effect. Objectively speaking, it was a devastating but ingenious way of dispatching your enemy. Discreet for whoever did not expect it, certainly especially seeing as it did not require but a scratch to get someone infected. He would have expected Poison Ivy to come up with such a plant, a possibility which he hadn’t ruled out by the end of his analysis. 

Then, there was the matter of Damian’s bond with the girl.

It reminded him, painfully so, of the period following his death when he had been completely blind-sided by the information of his son taking acting lessons.

He had missed out on a lot.

(Again)

.

.

.

“How bad is it, Alfred?’’ Dick asked, after he’d returned to the Batcave and saw they had three patients that required attention. He and Tim had stayed behind and had scoured the area to ensure no children had gotten lost in the chaos, but thankfully they had all been retrieved. Most of them were already on the way of being reunited with their worried families and the area where they were found was now filled with police and first responders. They were on good hands. Tim hadn’t returned with him as he wanted to inspect the bunker for any tracks on the Angel’s whereabouts, as well as to guide law enforcement in taking in the unconscious criminals that seemed to have had a much worse night than they did.

“Let’s just say that there is a long road to recovery, and that is entirely dependent on the next twenty-four hours.’’ Alfred said grimly, as he stared the digital scans. “She has suffered third-degree burns from her knuckles almost all the way to her elbows, and there are several lacerations across her body, most of which have required a multiple-layer suture. There is some deep bruising around her abdomen, and I have managed to stop the internal bleeding. What worries me most is that she has lost a significant amount of blood. Her pulse is very weak.’’

There was of course the matter of the dark marks that littered her skin – arms, torso, legs.

“Do you think he knew?’’ Dick asked Alfred, watching him attach a catheter to the girls left elbow connected to a bag of hypertonic saline.

“I am not sure.’’ The butler said. “But we shall find out soon enough. For the time being, it is crucial for her to come through the night.’’

Dick glanced at Damian’s body on the bed to the left, and the large unconscious wolf that had required medical attention of his own, laying between the two stations.

_Quite the night, huh?_

.

“Hey, little D.’’ Dick greeted cheerfully, finding the boy sitting on the floor’s library sifting through loose papers, post-its, printed images and a couple different journals, with smaller notebooks around it. One quick glance at them told the older man that the items were decidedly not Damian’s. The writing wasn’t as neat and elegant as Damian’s – the only child he can think of that writes in that manner – and the scribbles looked out of character for him to have done. But the amount of handwritten text over those papers showed that their author had been researching something in-depth. Dick spotted travel details and flyers on the Regina cruise ship as well as various destinations in Europe.

But he was trained by the Dark Knight himself, so it did not take him long to figure that the items belonged to Fay.

Last he checked, the girl did not have them on herself when they had brought her back to the cave, which meant Damian had procured them for himself.

“I take it you found those at her place?’’ Where she did live, again? Right. An attic. Above the Soul Bowl Soup Kitchen. He had heard about it.

“Hn. I am busy.’’ Damian grunted.

Clearly, having a parasite inside him did not deter him from being a prat. Dick still loved him, though. And he could tell the boy was more ruffled than usual, if not rather irritated with the notes before him, judging by the way he sneered slightly at a small notepad as he rifled through it.

The former Robin sighed and plopped down next to the boy. “What’s the matter, D?’’

Damian didn’t seem as if he was going to open about it, but a few seconds later he let the notepad fall in front of him.

“There is not enough data.’’ He said, finally. He didn’t elaborate.

But Dick understood, either way. Damian was referring to Fay.

“You want to know about her past and why she is here.’’

“Obviously.’’

“Does it matter, really?’’

Damian looked at him with a mixture of scepticism and surprise. “What kind of question is that? You ought to know better than anyone else the answer to that.’’ He tutted. “She is a ghost in this world, and I have just watched her single-handedly take on and kill several monsters that were three times her size. She also had knowledge of how to remove a parasitic entity that the Angel had infected me with. There is a connection between her and these new weapons that being put out on the market.’’

Dick regarded him curiously. The boy was particularly contrite, but it had not gone unnoticed how he had checked on her the moment he was awake. Now, he was there in the library surrounded by what appeared to be her personal notes – without her permission, at that – and looked particularly contrite.

The former Robin tentatively looked through the papers himself and notes himself. Damian clicked his teeth, not entirely happy for him to be looking through but not stopping him either.

There was an A5 notebook in which Fay seemed to have kept track of the days and….

…. symptoms?

Nosebleeds, coughing with or without blood, migraines, muscle aches, dizziness, nausea. Throughout the summer months they appeared intermittent during a week and never more than two or three symptoms together. In October, however, one by one the symptoms had started presenting themselves with recurring frequency and she had started adding additional notes.

_‘The bracelets – can’t feel flux.’_

_‘Coughing with blood.’_

_‘Get tired easily.’_

_‘The pain is getting worse.’_

_‘ Do not use flux. It_ _worsens symptoms’_

_‘DEATH?’_ Was circled at the bottom of one the page with the date ‘6th of October’ at the top of it.

Then….

_~~‘Tell Damian.’~~ _

Dick had not been there when the fight took place, and he was not sure what she meant by the ‘flux’ but Damian had mentioned that she had used a form of energy which allowed her to channel and control natural elements. It was safe to assume that the flux may represent that very energy, or how she refers to her abilities as.

If so, then she had already established for a while now that using her abilities would worsen an already pre-existing condition. The bracelets---Damian said he had removed them, and they all had seen the damage it had done to her wrists, leaving her with horrifically burned skin. The otherworldly runes had etched themselves onto her flesh like cattle brands.

But she had kept fighting. Damian had only mentioned that some of the parasite’s paralytic toxins had incapacitated him and he had also suffered from migraines before Fay had stepped in and battled the monsters herself.

Fay fought to protect him.

Even if she had already considered death because of using her abilities.

Damian was not like other children. There were few things capable of making him cry and he had largely acted like he usually did ever since they were brought in. Except…he had insisted for her to be taken in by them. Alfred had to sedate him because he was stubbornly refusing to get some rest, even if he hadn’t openly expressed concern over her. Fay----was the first person he went to when he woke up.

Fay was willing to sacrifice herself for him – not the first time, hm? - and now he was standing there looking at her notes consolidating that idea.

She had also kept it a secret for him after, according to Alfred, an improving rapport between them, a tentative bond of sorts. Not quite a friendship, and not an alliance but their strange arrangement seemed to help them both. Fay was taken care of, but she had grown out of her shell, and Damian, for his part, showed interest in another being human. In a strange and borderline insane manner. Regardless.

_I know what this is about._

The boy was discombulated by her actions, and affronted that she had eliminated the option to tell him the truth. Fay – and anyone who didn’t know Damian well – probably hadn’t realized that as harsh, arrogant, or bratty he could be, spoke volumes of his actual character. The good parts, the ones deeply buried beneath years of indoctrination and his pride and insecurity. The ones he’s working on with fervour, even if it’s not always obvious.

And in the unhealthiest manner possible, Damian was trying to justify his own hurt feelings by trying to detach himself, by treating her as a potential suspect.

Oh boy.

Seeing as his younger brother was like a live wire when it came to emotions, the best – and safest – tactic was to give him a (hard) nudge. Damian was smart enough to figure out the rest.

“A detective always posits his theories based on existing data, not before.’’

The boy gave him a look. “Where are you going with this?’’

Dick shrugged. “You say you need more data on her which is true.’’ They did need to find out more about who she was and how she knew about the USB key. However, “Until that time comes, you do have existing data on her. Not her name or background or anything about her past, but you have been interacting with her for weeks now. I am sure you have already built a profile of her character.’’ The older man smiled. “I don’t know as much as you do on her, but _the facts_ are that she is the type of person to go into a burning building to save others. From what I hear, she also risked her life to help another civilian.’’

“— _Tt_ —‘’

“ _The fact,_ Damian, is that she knew the consequences of using her abilities, but she had not hesitated to come to your aid. Had she?’’

The boy looked away, crossing his arms over his chest. His jaw was clenched tightly.

Dick felt he could push a bit further. “Someone’s past does not have to determine who they are now, or who they’ll be in the future.’’ It was a bit close to home, but he knew Damian would pick up on his message. The boy, after all, did not like to be judged on who he had been in the past either and was constantly trying to be better than he had been. “So, my advice as one detective to another, is that maybe, for the time being, it doesn’t matter who she was. It is necessary, yes, as protectors of Gotham to understand potential risks that another brings but as far as we know, her first instinct had been to send the USB key to you, was it not? She trusted you with---‘’

“She trusted _Robin_.’’ Damian sneered slightly. _Not me. Not Damian Wayne, whom she had known for longer._ Those words were unspoken but Dick heard them all the same. “And she’d barter her life to anyone else.’’ He added, quieter, if not a bit sourly.

So, he wanted to occupy a different place in her life than just ‘anyone’, then.

It would have been cute if it wasn’t for how fucked up it was that a twelve-year old was not capable of forming healthy bonds with other children because he had been raised to think of them as a weakness.

“She may have laid her life down for others, but so would have you as Robin. That doesn’t take away from her character.’’ But it does from their bond which potentially meant more to Damian than it did to her. “But do you really think that?’’

The boy didn’t respond.

Dick raised to his feet with a sigh and he ruffled the boy’s head which earned him only a half-hearted threat about losing his hand. He was about to walk away when the boy suddenly spoke.

“She thanked me.’’

“Hm?’’ Dick glanced down at him, but Damian’s face was turned at an angle that made it difficult to read his expression.

His tone was carefully neutral. “The bracelets were killing her. I asked her to stop. To run away.’’ Pause. “She refused then _deliberately_ made the final move---but she _knew_. The consequences of doing so. Right before that…she thanked me. And---’’ He made a sound at the back of his throat, in frustration perhaps, as he struggled with his own words. For someone as eloquent as Damian, he was not quite as good at putting his emotions in words. Then again, most of them weren’t. Very quietly, almost whispering the boy added. “She was smiling.’’ 

Oh.

Well.

That’s something.

“I am sure she had a good reason to do it.’’ Dick said. “Something tells me that she is not the type to say something like that without meaning it.’’

“Hn.’’

Dick smiled slightly to himself.

“I have ordered pizza. After the day we’ve had, I think we earned it some extra pepperoni and cheese.’’

The boy scoffed. “Your diet choices continue to remain abhorrent. At this rate, Grayson, you are headed to an early grave.’’

Still, he got up, grabbing the papers, and followed him out of the library.

.

Fay’s condition made a sudden turn several hours after they brought her in.

Her body temperature skyrocketed to a hundred and five degrees, burning rapidly through the drugs that put her under.

The first time she woke up, Alfred had to increase the dosage as she was in pain.

Her injuries started healing on their own. Slowly, but undoubtedly so.

The second time she woke up, Damian was standing next to her. Fay herself would not remember it, but she had asked him to take care of Bagheera if something happened to her. Nor would she remember when the boy told her that there was no need because she’ll survive. Or the way he looked at her.

Or that she grabbed his hand, and while he had not reciprocated, he had allowed her to hold it there until she was unconscious again.

.

Bagheera’s wounds were healing faster than his Fay but his broken leg and the gashes on his side were frustratingly taking their time. When he woke up in that strange, dark environment with its many screens and scents, his first reaction was to bare his teeth at the tall, dark haired man standing near the table where Fay was.

 _Danger, danger, danger,_ his instincts wailed even before he had finished assessing him. It was the man who collected them from the compound – the boy trusted him. Called him Father. But Bagheera was disoriented and weak and his first instinct was _keepFaysafe_ so he found himself staring down the man who, to his credit, had not looked intimidated at all. He and the boy shared physical similarities, including their ability of being undeterred by his presence. Unlike the boy, the man’s emotions were better tempered in that moment. Bagheera struggled to get a read on them.

Or perhaps he was simply too exhausted.

“I will not hurt her.’’ The man said.

The paladin stopped growling, and he huffed at the man, a moment later when he could sense no sign of malice. He tentatively approached the table, limping as he did and the man stepped aside, watching him but not stopping him as Bagheera lifted himself back on his hind legs. He placed his good paw on the edge of the table and leaned forward to look at his Fay.

Bagheera did not like the way she looked – small, broken. Covered in bandages and connected to machines.

Her heartbeat was stronger than before.

And her flux no longer felt….as if it was kept hidden. It was faint but for the first time in months, it seemed to flow through her uninterrupted.

He could not help with her injuries though, and he could feel the blood and the burnt flesh underneath the bandages.

But his Fay had fought back.

He was proud of her.

Bagheera nudged her hand gently. She didn’t react.

“She is strong.’’ The man remarked. He looked stern, but he did not feel that way. Not entirely. “She will survive.’’

The paladin growled softly, agreeing.

Of course, she was. She was his Fay.

The boy appeared a few minutes later. He did not look that much better, if you asked Bagheera but he seemed well enough to walk around. Strong child to have fought and moved around like that after the senwi had been removed.

Bagheera wasn’t sure if he liked the boy, but he did respect him.

The boy, too, was a warrior.

Fighting together had changed things. They both had looked out for each other’s back.

So, when the boy bent down to inspect his injuries, the paladin allowed him.

Titus, the dog was loved dearly by the boy. He was well taken care of, too, Bag could tell.

He did not allow many to get involved with his grooming – Fay was generally the one whom he’d allowed closest.

Just that once, Bag did allow the boy to wash his fur, because even though he acted as obnoxiously as ever, the paladin could feel his heart, even the emotions he kept buried beneath that anger of his.

And he liked what he sensed there.

.

Good Days, Bad Days and Green Days.

That’s how she labelled her days.

The Green Days started on the 12th of August. That was when they first met at the museum.

Green. Because his eyes were green…?

Silly girl.

(Still, the collar of his neck felt considerably warmer after that. Grayson must have been messing with the thermostat again).

Facts mattered, though.

Fay was a ghost in that world. She was largely human and had abilities that were element-based.

Fay could fight, and although she lacked stamina and speed, he had seen the way she moved. She had been trained to fight like that.

Fay was not above killing, at least as far as it came to beasts driven by their hunger for flesh and blood. She hesitated though, had tried to incapacitate them first. Killing had not been her first option.

That offered Damian information on her character, as well.

Her dog-not-dog was an empath, had a human-like mental capacity of understanding emotions, communicating with others and critical thinking. He was also something else. A beast in his own right, that fought just as fiercely as Fay had. He had come back in Damian’s aid, fought by his side and synced with him.

Fay had scars on her body that regular children do not. Not many, but enough to speak of an upbringing that is far from being painless. She is also covered in marks that glowed green, matching the energy she had been using.

Fay was…a selfless creature. She put others ahead of herself, at her own expense.

Fay suffered from anxieties and low self-esteem and her traumas had a strong grip over her psyche, but she was---she was not weak. She dealt with it all on her own, including her deteriorating health. Fay had considered death but had not gone crying to anyone for help.

Fay was emotional, prone to crying and crippling panic attacks. She was crying when fighting too but it had been…. different.

Fay did not smile often. When she did, it was a weak one, or out of politeness. That night she smiled. Brightly and widely and had looked at him in a way she hadn’t before, thanking him. For what? For giving her money and food? For having Alfred treat her wounds? For coming after her and the other children? The gratitude she was showing was akin to a victim’s whose life has been saved. He knew that look---he had seen it before. Civilians had thanked him before, after all.

But he was not saving Fay in that moment. She was protecting him, using herself as a shield, even if the bracelets were killing her. She had _meant it._ It was not the blood loss or the heat of the battle that prompted her to say that. Fay had deliberately turned to him, made eye contact which she generally avoided, so she could thank him.

Fay woke up on that medical table and she had asked him if he could look after Bagheera, who was easily the most important being in her life. It was no secret that she adored the creature. Their attachment to one another was obvious.

Damian still needed to know her real identity, where she came from. What her purpose was. How she knew the things she did. He was Robin, after all.

But,

_‘My life does not matter more than yours.’_

_‘…people aren’t born evil, I don’t think. They are shaped by their experiences. Good and bad. Some people are taught how to…deal with their pain and others…don’t. Or there’s—there’s too much of it.’_

_‘…someone once told me that a person is not defined only by their mistakes.’_  
“Do you believe that?’’  
“…. I want to.’’

_‘I am not heroic.’_

_‘Thank you.’_

He did know who Fay was – who she was beyond an identity and a name and her past.

For the time being, it was all he needed.

.

.

.

_4 th of November_

Fay wasn’t sure how many times she’s attempted to wake up because it also took her a while to understand that she was not dreaming. That yes, she was still alive. The first few instances – that she could recall, anyway- Fay struggled to open her eyes, and had instead listened to the sounds around her. There was a beeping sound, intermittent coming from her left. It was quiet otherwise. Subsequent attempts at waking up she thought she had heard Alfred’s voice calling to her, recognizing his accent but not able to process his words fully.

The first time she managed to open her eyes, her vision was blurry. Someone was standing next to her, but she couldn’t make out who it was. “Go back to sleep,’’ she’d heard, or maybe that’s what her tired mind interpreted it as. The voice was familiar, but she didn’t get the chance to identity because darkness pulled her back under within seconds.

She’s not sure, but she thinks she must have called for her parents at one point.

After what felt like the hundredth time, when Fay finally succeeded in staying awake, she found herself staring at a panelled pale ceiling. Unfamiliar. She was lying in a supine position, her head and torso slightly elevated by pillows. There was a dark duvet covering her, drawn up to her midriff, her arms placed down the side of her body. She was warm, muscles lax and relatively pain-free, so she tentatively moved her fingers and toes.

They both worked fine.

Several layers of bandages were wrapped around her hands, from her knuckles all the way to her elbows and she stared at them, trying to process the absence of the bracelets on her wrists.

How was that even possible? Did they fall when she had forcefully summoned the flux? Were they removed---without the ritual, at that? Fay wasn’t sure she had the energy to think about that or the implications of not wearing the bracelets anymore, and instead returned her attention to her surroundings. She was in a bedroom, and while not furnished as modern as the one at the penthouse, it felt just as rich.

Her bed was positioned in the middle of the room, facing a large set of drawers with a TV on it. There was a door to her right, past a simple brown desk and a chair, and down that end of the room she saw windows occupying three quarters of the length of the wall, flanked by heavy dark curtains. To her left, she saw double doors which she assumed led outside of the bedroom.

Eyelids feeling heavy, she ultimately gave in to the lull of sleep again.

When she woke up next, someone was standing next to her again.

It was Alfred.

He smiled politely at her, as he finished changing what looked like the saline bag the catheter at her elbow received fluids from.

“Miss Fay. I must say it is a relief to see you awake, finally.’’ She opened her mouth to speak but all that came out was a raspy sound, that made her throat sting. Alfred gently advised her to not force herself before he brought a glass of water with a straw in it to help her drink easier. Always prepared, that man. Fay was starting to think he was a seer, after all. It was harder than it should have been sipping through the straw, but he was patient and she was so thirsty that she didn’t let go until the water was gone from the glass. 

“How is that?’’

“Much…. much better.’’ She managed; voice still husky but mouth no longer feeling as if it was made of cotton. Fay looked at him almost pleadingly, because she had many questions to ask but she wasn’t sure if she had the strength to pose them or when her body would decide to go back to sleep again. As expected, Alfred picked up on the look she was giving him. He explained that she was at the Wayne Manor where she was brought in after she, Damian and Bagheera were retrieved from the compound. Both boy and beast were in one piece and unlike her, already ‘up and about’ according to the man which filled with her an infinite sense of relief. The children had also been safely found, offered medical attention, and reunited with their families.

The Angel was not apprehended, however. She is still at large, but Alfred reassured her that she was safe there. Dana, Robby, and Mack had also been put under surveillance, just to be on the safe side and that information in particular filled Fay with guilt. She hadn’t even considered how her own actions may affect their lives when she decided to investigate the mystery of George Sanders.

Alfred told her that she had been under for almost four days. When she was brought in, she had been in critical state and Alfred had admitted he hadn’t been sure if she was going to recover. However, over the night, her body had started healing on its own and she had stabilized, although her physiology had led him to put her on a particularly strong anaesthesia as she kept burning through it. She had a developed an abnormally high fever---at least from a human perspective – which didn’t go down for at least a day.

Most of the lacerations and bruises had closed, but he warned that those areas will likely be tender for a while. Her wrists had also been in incredibly bad shape – her skin had essentially been charred and he had feared she might require a skin draft, but her healing had taken care of it as well. The burns had devolved to first and second degree, and the area affected was smaller than initially. Alfred theorised that her body would have healed correctly had it not been for her already malnourished state, so he had placed her on a strong course of IV fluids, which supported her recovery albeit it remained intermittent.

She still had a long way until she was back in a good psychical, including being at an appropriate weight but she was on the right path there. 

Fay listened quietly, nodding ever now and then. She fell asleep right towards the end, after the butler reassured her again that she was safe there, so she had nothing to worry about.

She wanted to believe him. It wasn’t as if she could run away.

Nor she find herself wanting to. The secret was already out, so there was no point.

.

It was early afternoon when she woke up again, and Bagheera was there, sitting next to her, watching her with his pale-blue eyed gaze. Fay’s heart soared at the sight of him, and she basked in the affection that washed off him as he pulled himself as close as possible to her whilst careful of her injuries.

“You were amazing.’’ Fay whispered. “You are the best paladin ever, you know that?’’ He let out a satisfied sound, head lolling heavily against her chest, tongue hanging out of his mouth goofily.

Pride trickled through the affection he was projecting.

Directed at her.

Bagheera was proud of her too.

Fay found that she was a bit proud of herself, as well.

Then she fell asleep with a smile, turning to the side, careful of the drip so she could snuggle against her paladin. His fur was clean, soft---his injuries mostly healed save for the one on his front paw which was bandaged. It was no longer broken, at least.

He smelt of mangoes.

Clearly, she had missed a lot while she was asleep.

.

Fay was starting to fear that she’d never manage to stay awake for more than ten to twenty minutes at a time, as she stared at nothing, sipping on a second bottle of water. Alfred had left several of them on the nightstand next to her, cap unscrewed and straws next to them and when she woke up in the middle of night, Fay had been so thirsty that the first five hundred mil bottle barely alleviated the dryness she felt in her mouth. Alfred had removed the drip while she was asleep, so she had more freedom of movement, but she doubted she was going on solid food anytime soon.

Bagheera was sleeping soundly on the floor, and she smiled when she heard him snore several times. He rarely had gotten the chance to sleep so deeply ever since they arrived in Gotham, and perhaps even before that so Fay was glad to know he was relaxed enough to let himself give in to his exhaustion completely.

It was hard to believe that had transpired all took place in the span of several hours. But such was the nature of battles, was it not?

_Come to think of, that’s probably my first real battle. Not a mock exam or a supervised mission._

How ironic. Fay wondered what her family think would if they knew.

Going to the bathroom was…. a challenge. Fay did not want to disturb Bagheera, so she tried to be as discreet as possible, a feat considering her legs refused to cooperate with her and getting out of the bed was a challenge. Thankfully, the bathroom was on the same side as her bed, so she was able to use the furniture and wall to support herself. When she came back out, she felt out of breath which was ridiculous, but she found it difficult to fight her exhaustion. The bracelets, the battle, her pre-existing malnourishment, and sleep deprivation – it seems they had all come together to bite her in the ass, and her body was doing its best to recover.

Fay had almost made it to the bed when her knees gave out and she found herself on the floor, clutching clumsily at the duvet as some sort of anchor, which was not easy given the mobility of her hands was reduced by the bandages. Short stabs of pain manifested themselves from her palms all the way to her elbows. And, of course, that’s when the door opened. Her room was semi-lit by a lamp left turned atop desk, but the light from the hallway briefly flooded the entire space, and she squinted. Then it was gone, as the person who entered closed the door behind themselves.

Her heart felt as if it’d skipped a breath when she realized the visitor was decidedly not Alfred, and although the sedatives have been keeping her calm throughout the day, she felt a sliver of panic.

She wasn’t prepared for it – for him.

Not after everything that happened.

Bagheera snorted, rousing temporarily as he lifted his head and glanced at the figure drowsily. He then glanced at her, before letting his head fall back down.

_…. seriously?!_

Fay would lie if she said she didn’t wish she’d black out in that moment, just so she could avoid the boy’s gaze and what was bound to be a very awkward conversation. Mostly on her part. He did not look as ruffled as she felt. If anything, he looked the same as usual if only slightly exhausted judging by the faint circles under his eyes. He was wearing a dark, long sleeved shirt and a pair of navy joggers. Bandages were peeking from underneath his right sleeve and there was a short line of stitches above his left brow. Fay couldn’t tell what the state of the injury on his abdomen was, but he was up and walking as normal, so she assumed it was healing accordingly.

She just didn’t know why he was in her room at three o’clock in the morning.

They stared at each other.

“What are you doing?’’ He asked finally, giving her a pointed look as she continued to kneel on the floor, supporting herself against the bed.

“I, um---‘’ Heat rose to her cheeks. “I fell.’’

A dark eyebrow raised. Her ears felt as if they were on fire, but she didn’t move. All the strength had left her, and she did not want to put on a show of trying to climb back in the bedroom. In the end, she didn’t need to because Damian rolled his eyes, tutted then came around the bed and helped her. He was surprisingly gentle, and as soon as she was back on the mattress, she pulled the duvet high up, feeling self-conscious.

‘ _Stop it!’_

_‘No, I won’t!’_

_‘Thank you.’_

Definitely not prepared. Bagheera’s loud snoring, unsurprisingly, did nothing to alleviate the strange silence that befell them. Something had shifted in his relationship with Damian if he was so comfortable with allowing the boy in her room, and to sleep at the same time (but Fay knew that if the situation called for it, he’d still protect her).

Damian cleared his throat, and she furtively glanced at him, from where he was standing by the side of her bed. “Alfred has told me that your recovery is showing positive progress.’’ He remarked, his expression set in the same frown he always carried, and it took her a moment to realize that this was his way of asking her how she felt. Of course. Damian had a way of making observations and expecting others to understand the not-so-obvious question behind them, an idiosyncrasy of his that she had grown accustomed to.

“I guess so.’’ She muttered. “…It’s hard to tell.’’ Fay shifted her legs, crossing them under the duvet and leaned her back against the pillows. Her shoulder was aching. “I keep falling asleep.’’ She added, slightly frustrated.

He nodded. “That’s normal. Pennyworth has been keeping you on heavy sedatives to prevent you from waking up again while the worst of your injuries were healing.’’

Fay blinked. “Again?’’

“You woke up several times in the first two days.’’ He paused. “You were in pain, so Pennyworth had increased the dosage. It did not seem to affect your recovery, so he continued to keep you under for forty-eight hours. After, you continued to sleep on your own.’’

“Oh.’’ Fay looked away, staring back down at her bandaged hands. “Okay.’’

“I removed them.’’

Startled, she met his gaze again. “What?’’

“Your bracelets. I removed them---while were still at the compound. I have kept them, but they appear to have been damaged.’’

Her brows furrowed. “You…. removed them? What---you mean…they just came off?’’

Damian crossed his arms over his chest. “Yes.’’ A brow quirked. “I take it that has not happened before?’’ Fay shook her head. “…There was a ritual for it. It---it didn’t work.’’ She licked her lips. Somehow, she felt thirsty again even though she drank almost a litre of water. “I tried and…it didn’t work. Um, I don’t know why but then---they started acting strange.’’

“Strange how?’’

Fay frowned. “…. I guess---I guess that’s when I started feeling unwell. I didn’t---realize it was the bracelets but um, my stamina decreased, and I started having migraines.’’ She looked down, feeling sheepish. “It got worse— ‘’

“---in the last two months.’’ He finished for her. “I found your journals.’’ Her heart sunk. That meant he had gone to the attic and if he saw the journal she kept on her symptoms, it also meant he found the one containing information on her intended travels to Europe. Last she remembered; they had been left hidden amongst the books, but did that mean he also found her hiding spots? Then again, was it surprising? After they’ve been through, after he’d seen what she was capable of, it was only normal for him to want to investigate deeper.

Silence again, and she wondered if he was expecting her to respond to his comment. Instead, she glanced at his stomach then back at his face. “Is---is your injury okay?’’

“It is healing as it should.’’ He replied curtly. Then he seemed to think better of it. “There were traces of spores in my bloodstream, but my immunity system took care of it. The site of the surgery had been infected---‘’ Fay grimaced. “---however, it was nothing that a course of antibiotics couldn’t address.’’

“That’s good.’’ She nodded, swallowing. Damian moved a second after that, and she watched him with a sense of bewilderment as he walked around the bed, shoved a clean straw in the last remaining bottle and pushed it in her hands, barely giving her a chance to react. Then he went ahead and sat down on the bed, in front of her, crossing his legs in front of himself. Fay stared, torn between feeling offended that he had just invaded her personal space and grateful that he handed her the water. He didn’t seem to find anything wrong with making himself comfortable on the bed without an invite.

Okay then.

She sipped on the water slower than usual, avoiding his gaze. Damian was uncharacteristically patient as he didn’t rush her through it, even though he must’ve figured she was taking her time on purpose. When her thirst was assuaged, she lowered the bottle toward her lap and decided to beat him to it, finding the silence even more frightening than the line of questioning she was due for. “I am sorry.’’ He didn’t comment, so she continued. “I…. I didn’t want to cause trouble. Or get involved in your affairs as…um, as Robin. It---just happened.’’ It was the truth.

“Tell me— ‘’ He started in his usual demanding tone, then he seemed to think better of it. “Will you tell me?’’ He was giving her choice. What would happen if she refused? Fay’s emotions must have been particularly transparent because he seemed to figure out that she was thinking of just that. “I will not force you.’’ Damian said simply. 

Fay couldn’t help herself and she looked at him sceptically. “You…. won’t force me.’’ He couldn’t blame her for being doubtful, she had not only ended up interfering in the George Sanders case, but she had removed a parasite out of his body before killing several monsters with abilities he couldn’t have possibly known about. If their roles had been switched, she would not simply let him go without some answers. Plus---he was the one who said she owed him an explanation back in the forest.

“You had considered coming to me for help, had you not?’’ Damian asked. “Yet you crossed off that option. Why?’’

She hesitated, stunned by the change in subject. “I---I didn’t know…if you would. Or how---how I would explain it.’’ She pursued her lips. “Um, honestly, I was worried you would…’’

“I would what?’’

“That—that you would arrest me.’’ Fay muttered, embarrassedly as she reached to scratch her nose. A nervous habit. “---it’s not like I planned all this.’’ She added, her frustration mounting.

Damian stared at her, with those scrutinising eyes of his. She couldn’t see his face properly given the little light in her room, for which she was grateful. Fay found it easier to look at him. Or maybe she felt that way because everything that’s transpired. “Have you committed a crime?’’

“I don’t…. know?’’

“You don’t know.’’

His tone told her that she thought she was being an idiot; she’d heard it too many times to misinterpret it. Not just at her, he used that tone with most people around him. Although to Damian’s credit, in the last several weeks, he had seemed to grow more…. tolerant. He didn’t criticise her as much and when he disagreed with her arguments, he wasn’t quite as harsh. Perhaps she’d just gotten used to him. She did admit to herself that she saw him as something akin to a friend, didn’t she? Not that she would ever say it out loud.

_Here goes nothing._

“I am not from this world.’’

Fay had envisioned on many occasions, different scenarios of how someone would react if she uttered those words to them. She had imagined Dana would start laughing, and think she’s joking but ultimately would be open to listening to her, although Fay could also see her being terrified and confused. Mack would probably just take it in stride but might not process it fully, so they’d go back to normal. Robby would accept it easily, she liked to think, what with him being a walking encyclopaedia on the warriors of that world. He’d ask questions – lots of them – but he’d be equal parts curious and confused. Even if he wouldn’t believe her initially, he’d probably be the easiest to convince that she was not who she seemed to be. If it ever came down it, he would probably be the person she went to for help – had even considered it several times. She had imagined having to have that conversation with strangers as well – law enforcement officers, for example. That had been primarily before she and Bag settled in Gotham and had largely kept a low profile. For a while anyway.

Then there was Damian, of course. Because of him she had spent hours worrying about being discovered and her paranoia had gone into overdrive, especially given his unpredictability and persistence. He was also the one most likely to have figured it out first and, in her mind, she had gone over how the conversation would played out hundreds of times. Sometimes she’d even practice with Bagheera but it never stopped being hard, even if it was just practice. It helped her in figuring out what would be best to tell him and what not, however.

But she had not anticipated that she’d end up fighting chimeras to protect him, or that she’d do so with such pathos. Fay was still processing everything, yet the result was the same. The truth was out and she – and Bag – had revealed more about themselves in the span of several hours than she had planned on ever showing him if she could help it. When thinking about how the confession about her not being of that world would go, Fay had imagined him believing her, and then proceed to demand an explanation, looking more irritated than usual. She didn’t think he’d be shocked or confused, and certainly not scared. Not considering who he was.

“I know.’’ He said casually. Even in the poor light, she could tell he did not seem fazed by it. “I had figured it out you weren’t a regular human. Your DNA showed different biological markers, so I suspected you were a dormant meta-human. Bagheera had always struck me as more than just a dog.’’

_What_

“You---you knew?’’ Fay stammered. “How---how long?’’

“It was an unconfirmed theory. I am not to make assumptions without data, which I did not have until four days earlier.’’ Damian crossed his arms over his chest. “It makes sense, of course. Although I must hand it to you – your knowledge of this world was one of the factors why I have discounted the theory that you are an alien. That, and the fact that you are human.’’

Fay had considered he might know more than he let on, but she didn’t think he would consider her being from another realm.

He sounded so casual about it.

As if….it made no difference.

“You thought I was monitoring you.’’ Damian remarked. “Is that why you were so reluctant to work for me?’’

_Of course, he’d figure that out too._

“I—I—I---’’ Damn him. He left her feeling discombulated again. “…no. I mean, yes but---but it wasn’t just that.’’ Her first assumption of him was that he wanted to hurt her, that he wanted to play some sort of sick game simply because he could. Fay had judged him based on the experienced she’d had with others because his attitude had reminded of them. “…it wasn’t the only reason.’’

“Your nose is bleeding.’’

Wait. What? Fay reached to her nose with her index finger and indeed she felt something warm and wet right below her left nostril. When she looked at her finger, she saw it was red. Damian moved closer with a swiftness that she envied, and he suddenly pressed a white handkerchief to her nose, the free hand tilting her head forward, before removing the half-empty bottle from her hands and placing it aside. “Stay like this until it passes.’’ He instructed, and she did as she was told because well, she didn’t have much choice. It wasn’t as if she could run away even if she felt incredibly humiliated. His knees were only brushing her slightly, and he removed his hand away from her nose when she reached to hold the piece of cloth herself.

Other than that, they weren’t touching but she could feel his presence. It was warm, and he smelt of detergent and a faint cologne that she generally smelt on his clothes before as well. He was always so well put together; she isn’t sure if she ever saw him look anything less than presentable. Even when he was injured, he was determined to carry himself in a manner that bellied that his pain.

“Do you have any other symptoms?’’

“No.’’ She shook her head. “My shoulder---hurts a little, but I am okay.’’

“Do you require Pennyworth’s assistance?’’

If Alfred came in then, his visit would be cut short. But Fay didn’t to disturb the man unless necessary.

And she also realized that it was no point wanting to keep hiding. There was a part of her that wanted to just feel the burden of keeping everything a secret alleviated.

“I thought it was a game.’’ She said suddenly. She’d already told him that, back then, but she wanted to clear the record even if there was likely no need. He probably didn’t care. “I didn’t know…what to expect because it was so strange. You---tracked me down to Mr. Yuri so um, I figured it was easy for you to do that. To track down people. It---it didn’t make sense, I suppose why you would be interested in repaying me. I mean---I am nobody in this world. But, um, I thought---‘’ Her breath hitched. _I thought you wanted to use me like the others did. That you saw I was a loser. That you wanted to make fun of me._

“You thought it was a game because of who I was. And who you were.’’ He filled in for her again. “That I was a bored heir and that I was playing you.’’

That was one way to put it. When said like that, it made her feel guilty. “I am sorry.’’ She murmured. “…. I just met people who did and um, like I said----it was really confusing. I was worried that you’d find out and— ‘’ She shrugged, which she instantly regretted because of the sharp stab of pain in her shoulder. Fay flinched but continued. “---I don’t know. Blackmail me? Report me? I don’t even know what the laws are here---and I know there’s people from---from other worlds.’’

He was quiet for a moment, and with her head bowed she couldn’t tell if he was angry or not.

“I think that’s…. logical.’’ He said finally. “You were being cautious.’’

Fay nodded and took the handkerchief away. It was stained with blood, but the flow seemed to have stopped, so she lifted her head. Her neck and shoulders felt sore in that position.

“I---I realised you were Robin back----at the penthouse. I don’t know why---it took me so long, but I didn’t mean to.’’ She defended herself softly.

“When you hyperventilated.’’ He concluded, his brows furrowing although he seemed more intrigued than annoyed. “We were discussing swordsmanship. Is that why---‘’

Fay shook her head, smiling sheepishly. “This is going to sound…silly but it was when you said um---‘’ She paused trying to remember the exact words. Her mind did feel slower than usual, a side effect of the sedatives. “---‘ _that was really stupid of you’_. You said---the same thing the first time. On the roof, back---back in August.’’

Damian’s brows went up slightly. “That’s what gave it away? Seriously?’’

“Sort of. Bagheera knew---‘’ She glanced at her paladin. He was still sleeping, but not quite as deeply as before, she could tell. So, he remained alert still, most likely out of habit than anything else. “---he told me you were a hidden threat.’’

“Told you?’’ Damian inquired. “I thought he was not capable of speech.’’

“He’s not. Bag and I have…signals that we use when he can’t project. Or when he wants to warn me of something without…um, making it obvious.’’ Fay leaned slightly back, meeting his gaze again, fiddling with the handkerchief in her hands. He was closer, so the glow of the lamp illuminated his features better, making his eyes look brighter than usual. “He understands people really well which---you know already. I asked him questions---and he told me he thought you were a hidden threat. But he also---he also confirmed that you weren’t dangerous to me. To us. It was really confusing,’’ She admitted again, finding it easier to speak with each word. They just came pouring out which was equally liberating and dangerous. “…I don’t know how he knew but he wasn’t worried. About you. Then---when you were helping me and said those words, it all sort of just…clicked.’’

“I gave you a way out, but you didn’t take it. What was that? Keeping your enemy close.’’

Yes. But, “I don’t think you…were my enemy.’’ Fay said slowly but truthfully. “I didn’t know what…you knew. I did need the money, as well.’’

Something flickered in his eyes. Fay couldn’t tell what it meant with certainty. Irritation?

“Is that it?’’

Did it really matter? He just said her reasons were logical.

“I---I guess…’’ She gripped her handkerchief, bunching it between her fingers. The constant movement made her wrists hurt, and the bandages to brush uncomfortably against her wounded skin. “I was curious.’’ Fay whispered.

“Curious.’’ He repeated. She couldn’t tell if he was happy or not with her answer. “Hn.’’

The skin underneath her eye twitched. That’s it? She had spent weeks imagining that conversation, had lost hours of sleep over it and he didn’t even seem particularly affected. Fay opened her mouth intent on asking what was next, when her muscles contracted painfully, knocking her breath out. The pain was electrifying, starting from the base of her spine, and working its way up around her torse and to her arms. Her marks felt tender, and her flux was faint, so they were not to be blamed – instead the pain did not seem to have a particular point of origin. Her body just ached. Like it did a few weeks earlier, along with the crippling migraines and nausea and bloody coughs. None of those symptoms manifested themselves, but the current level of pain she felt was enough to make her grimace and instinctively double in on herself.

“Where does it hurt?’’ Damian asked immediately. “Everywhere.’’ She breathed and she felt him shift. 

“I will go fetch Pennyworth---‘’ She’s not sure what possessed her, but she ended up grabbing him by the forearm. Fay felt him tense, but he didn’t push her away. “Please, don’t.’’ She said, letting go of him immediately. “It’s---it’s fine. It will pass and---‘’ She took a deep breath, even if it felt as if pins and needles were pushed in her ribcage. Then another one. It helped; the pain eased. “—there’s nothing he can do.’’ 

Damian settled back and when she was finally able to straighten herself up, Fay met his gaze. Her vision was slightly blurry; she hadn’t even realized tears had gathered in her eyes. “…. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.’’ She admitted, voice just above a whisper, blinking rapidly in hopes of drying her eyes of any tears. They stayed like that in silence for a while, with her avoiding his gaze and him probably thinking she’s pathetic.

“If you had asked for my help, I would not have turned you down.’’ He said. “I will---if you ask for it.’’ He clicked his teeth again, before adding much quieter. “If you’ll allow me.’’

It was hard to not feeling like crying when he said such things to her. “…why?’’ She asked. “Is this---because of what happened? I don’t---you don’t have to----’’ 

“I am not going to help you out of a sense of debt.’’ He cut her off. “I will because I decided so.’’

Just like that.

Just like when he decided she was worth the offer.

“You don’t believe me.’’

“I don’t…know what to believe.’’ Fay said.

Damian sighed. “I know that you know I am capable of hurting you and you are not wrong. I do hold the upper hand—you are in my world, my territory and although you have displayed fighting skills and abilities that indicate you are not as defenceless as you appear to be, I still have several advantages over you.’’ At least he was being open about it. “But I have determined that my initial conclusion was right. You are not a threat so---I will not treat you as such. Unless of course, you did anything to prove me wrong.’’

But that didn’t mean she was free to go. That would have been a naïve assumption to make.

“Look at me.’’

She shook her head, aware that her refusal was childish but if she did make eye contact with him, she was certain to start crying. Damn her for being so sensitive.

A hand reached to the back of her head again, tilting it up and for a moment she tried to stare at anywhere but his eyes, but it was an unsuccessful endeavour. In retrospect he had seen her cry before, so it wasn’t anything new, but she still felt ashamed.

He held her gaze. “I will only say this once, so I want you to listen me very carefully.’’ He ordered, making no note of the tears that started streaming down her face. “I will not hurt you. I will ask questions and I will expect you to answer them truthfully. If you refuse to do so, I will only ask for a justification in return, but I will not force you. You are not a prisoner. Do you understand?’’ It would have helped if he didn’t sound as if he was threatening her, even he was doing anything but.

But she nodded, sobbing softly.

“I will not pretend I am not interested in obtaining more information about your world, your purpose and intentions for being here. However, as it currently stands, your actions so far have only consolidated my assessment of your character.’’ Fay stared at him confusedly, but he didn’t elaborate what exactly his assessment was about. It was always hard to tell with him what he really thought of her, even though he had described her actions as heroic before. He insulted and criticised her more than he complimented her, in all fairness and his compliments were generally rather obscure or back handed.

“I will help you in understanding the damage the bracelets have caused you and in recovering, which is obviously a possibility given you’re still standing here, breathing after the injuries you’ve incurred.’’ He continued. “And I know you were planning on travelling to Europe, so I am willing to help with that as well. All I require from you is honesty. In return, you will have my support.’’ But not necessarily his honesty or trust, a small voice whispered in her head. The paranoid, insecure one. There was some self-preservation involved, too.

“What if…. I refuse?’’

He rolled his eyes. She did have a history of refusing him, so she couldn’t blame him.

“You are free to go but I will still monitor you. The Angel is at large, and she is aware of your identity.’’

Is that it? That was the only reason? She didn’t dare voice those questions though.

“I don’t believe I have given you a reason to say no.’’ Damian added, slightly irritated as he looked away. He rarely ever did that. “What has taken place on Halloween night has taught enough about both of our characters. I, as Robin. And you….as someone who is willing to lay their life down for another.’’ He looked back at her. “Is that not enough?’’

It was. Of course, it was. She wasn’t sure what he thought of what she had done that night beyond him acknowledging her willingness to sacrifice herself, but her opinion of him had certainly consolidated as being a more positive one than negative.

Fay nodded. “I won’t…say no.’’

“Good.’’ He looked satisfied, if not surprised and she watched him get up from the bed. “I will leave you to rest.’’

How typical of him. To cause her to experience a vortex of emotions then leave her looking nowhere as affected.

He stopped right before exiting, hand on doorknob and back to her.

“You were wrong, by the way.’’ He paused, and she just stared at him puzzled.

Fay wasn’t sure if she even heard the words that came out of his mouth, as quiet as they were but he gave her no chance to speak, immediately exiting after. She stared at the door, then at the spot where he’d been sitting wonder if she imagined everything and was perhaps still asleep. Bagheera however, yawned loudly and raised to his feet, stretching before jumping on the bed.

He laid down next to her, lazily plopping his head on one of the pillows before closing his eyes. In a way, he was like a drowsy child. A large, furry one, that is.

“You were awake the entire time, weren’t you?’’

He growled softly. Bag’s emotions were faded, so she couldn’t make them out, but she got the sense that he felt satisfied. Fay did not have the energy to contemplate her discussion with Damian, so she laid down next to her paladin, back to back, listening to the rhythmic tapping of raindrops against the window and Bag’s breathing.

She was asleep within minutes, although his last words kept replaying in her head.

_‘Your life matters’_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There will be a bonus chapter coming up in the next 24 hours, which might be my favourite one yet as it will explore some unanswered questions about one of the main characters ;)


	17. Intermezzo

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here it is, folks. I hope you all enjoy it and that this chapter will answer some questions you must have on Fay.
> 
> Minor edit: In chapter 6, Fay gives her phone to Helen and tells her the code to unlock it, mentioning it is '0904', the day they arrived in that world. I changed it to '0303' which would be 3rd of March, giving her a little over three months of travel before arriving in Gotham. 
> 
> Next chapter will be posted in approximately a week. Anyone who wishes to discuss the fanfic (without spoilers) of course, come find me on Tumblr. https://www.tumblr.com/blog/lafayetteworld.

.

.

.

“Tell me.’’

“What would you like to know?’’

_Everything._

“Start by telling me telling me about your world, and how you got here.’’

“Oh—okay.’’

_I can’t tell him everything._

There are many theories to how her realm came to be. The most ubiquitous one is that of a powerful man referred to as the White Sage or the Prophet of Worlds. He is credited with having led a group of followers from Earth into a new, paradise-like realm. Her realm. The details of when, how, or why remain highly debated to that day, due to a lack of evidence. Most of what they know of the Prophet has been passed down orally, generation to generation, making it difficult to distinguish between what is mythology and embellished stories and what is fact. Archaeologists in her own world have found evidence where the cradle of civilisation begun but it is still unknown how those settlements formed. Some tales say that the Sage created the realm himself and that he was not a man, but a god, while more modern theories posit that it was not a creation, as much as it was a discovery of a lost world.

The belief in the Sage and his followers still exists to present days, and for thousands of years, religions have posed him as a central figure, hailed as a symbol of peace and unity. Such values were reportedly passed down to The First Tribes of humans, leading to a prosperous period with no conflicts to disrupt the development of such societies. The new offered everything Earth did and more, from its unique flora and fauna to the presence of primordial arts such as magic and _the flux._ What he saw her use was exactly that – the flux. It is but the concept that allows her people to interpret the energy that permeates the world, the universe. The flux is what ties everything together, and it is a flow of energy that everyone is born with.

_“Interesting. There are philosophies in this world that share in that belief. Are you familiar with the concepts of Qi, Mana or Orenda?’’_

_“Not…all of them. My…parents talked to me about how the flux is something acknowledged in this world but by different names.’’_

_“Can everyone use the flux in the manner you do?’’_

_“No. Not…everyone. The flux can manifest differently…just like magic does. One can be born with a strong flux, or um…they can attain it. But not everyone can do that.’’_

The Sage may have been historically credited with establishing the first human settlements, but neither him nor his followers were the first inhabitants in her world. Regardless of which interpretation one gives more weight to, humans were not the only sentient species to roam around nor were they the only intelligent ones. There are species of the plant and animal kingdoms that both worlds share, and those that are unique solely to her home world. Likewise, there are creatures in her realm that his world is no stranger to, if only largely as part of mythological stories, such as dragons. Dragons are powerful beings whose knowledge had been subsequently been passed down to other species and it is thought they taught magic and the secrets of the flux to mankind. Peaceful creatures that hold great power, once at the top of the food chain – at least until other species developed and vied for dominion of territories and resources, leading to conflicts and wars. Once free creatures, dragons had been hunted, enslaved or weaponised, their numbers fluctuating and diminishing throughout history. It wasn’t until recent times that they have started being considered as a protected species and that was a law that had yet to be recognized across all territories in her world.

It is not just the animal kingdom that is revered with being in possession of great magical ability or having uncovered the secrets of the flux. A good example is Maysoon and its jungles.

“ _Maysoon? Are you aware that’s a word from one this world’s languages?’’_

_“Yeah, um, it’s not well-known knowledge but my mother once told me…. I can’t remember the name. A—Ara--.’’_

_“Arabic. That is the name of the language. Maysoon means---‘’_

_‘’----Beauty?’’_

_“That’s correct. Why is it---‘’_

_“I—It’s…. I will get to that.’’_

_“Hn.’’_

The jungle of Maysoon is legendary for how breathtakingly beautiful it is. Songs and poems have been singing it praises for centuries but also issuing warnings to any of those who dared venture through it. The jungle is the source of thousands of myths and tales about the dangers that come with its beauty. For centuries it had been considered as untameable, inhospitable and to this day, the jungle is hailed as sacred territory for it had withstood terrible, dark periods of bloodshed and conflict yet continued to prosper. Unsurprisingly, the jungle and other similar locations in her world, became coveted targets for conquerors wishing to claim them as a centre of their political and military power.

The history of her world is complicated, just like his, so she would not be able to offer him a linear account without deviating to other topics and falling down a rabbit hole, but she tried to offer him a succinct account of it. A near impossible feat because there was just _so_ much that she didn’t still know herself even with her thorough education. It simply was not easy explaining thousands of years of history even if she spent days doing so. Fay had been learning about his world since she was a child and had studied it religiously after travelling there but she knew she had just barely scratched the surface herself, so she wasn’t even sure what topic to broach next when discussing her world. There was also the added pressure in being cautious about what she revealed. _Maybe I shouldn’t have mentioned the dragons? Should I even talk about how the flux works? Or how our territories look like?_

Fay did not have the time to consider it all those questions, so she settled for summarising history lessons that she used to receive from her tutors. Fay was not a strategist in nature, but she was smart enough to know that disclosing too much information could also lead to her own realm’s security being compromised.

However, it was a give and take situation: Damian was helping her. He was also not treating her as an intruder or suspect when he could have easily done so, and she did know more about his world than he knew about hers. There was an implicit need to balance their information of one another.

It was impossible denying that people from her realm had access to his when she was a living proof of that. Then, of course there was the matter of someone trading in weapons from her world and Daphne Barlow’s existence.

Fay was worried. How many more people had crossed the veil between the worlds to be there? How many of them are criminals, breaking fundamental laws of her realm by trafficking resources and violating years of secrecy? Did the Council even suspect something like this was taking place? Did her uncle know? Had her parents?

_So many questions and no answers._

If there was one thing, she was certain of was that cooperation is key. Fay did not want Damian or any other warriors in that world to use the actions of a few to draw an unfair assessment of her world. What if they started thinking a war was being planned against their world or that threats from her home world could travel there at any moment and endanger everyone’s lives? She would no longer be offered asylum. What if they decided to force more information out of her or she ended up being used against her world?

Fay did not want to think Damian would ever do that (curse her growing weakness towards him). Her instincts told her that he did not wish her harm and Bagheera himself would have sensed any signs of malice. That didn’t mean, however, that he would not change his mind in the future. It was his job as a warrior of Gotham to preserve the safety of its citizens, so duty will come first if push comes to shove. Right? A warrior was a warrior.

_“You’re growing more agitated. What’s the problem?’’_

_“Well…I— ‘’_

Presently, Fay was the only positive, or at worst, neutral connection Damian and the others had to her world. It was a laughable concept but the burden of representing her world had fallen on her shoulders. She was essentially an ambassador. _Her._ The failure. The cry baby, the broken one, the girl who lacks control, the girl who had humiliated herself over and over. The outsider and runaway and fallen---

The universe really hated her.

_“…. I just---I am worried.’’_

_“Tch. Is this about your safety here? ---- Don’t look so surprised I figured out. Your anxiety and fears are written all over your face.’’_

_“I just don’t understand…. how could there be all these items from my world being exported here. Travel between the realms is very---difficult and highly monitored.  
Not many are interested, or…. who believe that contact should not be made with outsiders.’’ _

_“If it’s so difficult, then how are you here? You’ve mentioned your parents teaching you about this world, providing you with literature. So, they had access.’’_

_“Um, yeah. There are ways…. dangerous ways. Temporary---temporary breaks in the veil. They are rare and um, never in the same location. Even if one finds them…. well, passage is not guaranteed. Not alive, at least. I think very few people know about them.’’_

_‘’You knew two such people. I take it they taught you, then?’’_

_“Not exactly. They thought it was too…. dangerous, so I um, I tried to find it on my own. A way here, I mean.’’_

_“How?’’_

_“…..’’_

_“Fay. This is not the time for you to be withholding information. You’ve travelled between the realms and any information you have is essential to the investigation in how someone like the Angel came in the possession of weapons from your world.’’_

_“To assess the threat.’’_

_“Obviously.’’_

_“And dispose of it.’’_

_“You are a true observer of the obvio—Tt--. I see. You’re worried about disclosing information about your world. You think we are going to use the information against you and your homeland. That I am going to dispose of you once we have it.’’_

_“I---I mean…. well, yes. Wouldn’t…you?’’_

_“Fair enough. That’s a logical consideration to make and would have been naïve of you to not to take it into consideration.’’ He conceded. “But this is your chance to prove that your world is not defined by the actions of a few.’’_

Perhaps he could read minds, after al. There was no way she was _that_ transparent.

_“…..’’_

_“Tch. I believe we already established that you are not my prisoner. That, of course, is not an immutable status but unless you’re planning on committing crimes in this world, that is not going to happen. I believe that’s a fair assessment. I have not given you a reason to doubt my words as you had not given me a reason to doubt my assessment of you. I think I made it clear what it was.’’_

No, not really. But she knew Damian well enough by that point to understand it was a moot point asking for further clarification. He’ll just get more annoyed.

Perhaps it was that wretched hope again, but she felt that maybe he felt offended too. That she did not offer him more credibility.

That he cared. That she wasn’t the only one becoming emotionally invested in their frien— _arrangement._

_I am so pathetic. Why would he ever want to be my friend?_

(Why would anyone?)

_“- sigh – Let me put it this way, then. You do not want anyone to be using resources from your world to perpetrate crimes here, do you?’’_

_“Of—of course not.’’_

_“Which means we have a common enemy. You want me, as Robin, to think that your world is not the enemy? Then do that by helping us apprehend whoever is doing this. We both know that you would not ignore the problem if others are in danger. You have the information, and I have the resources. What’s more, the enemy doesn’t expect it.’’_

Good point.

_He is using me. Even if he can be kind and is a hero and protects others._

_He would never see me as---_

_“Alright.’’_

_What was it that father used to say? Effective lies are the ones containing truths._

Traditionally, people in her realm have thought of his as an ‘outside world’ and that was a theory that had been capitalised upon by the ‘old regimes’ for generations, who fed a constant message that other worlds cannot be accessed or shouldn’t be as they would post an existential risk. Several decades earlier the Resistance ushered the world into a new era. The efforts of these rebels – civilians and warriors alike banding together– had led to a series of revolutions and the gradual fragmentation of power that the old rulers had held onto for centuries. The former government systems did not fall overnight, of course. It took years – decades, really – to establish new and fairer governmental systems. _True._

The interest in the ‘outside’ worlds had not changed significantly even with the changes that folowed. Her parents’ interest in that realm was not something many shared, and Fay had not known any other children that have been taught about its literature and cultures and history like she had. _True._ To many, the other realm remained something they could not access or had no reason to do so, and to others, keeping ‘outsiders’ out was not seen as an option but a must. Travelling to other worlds is also not a topic that is often discussed; if anything, it is generally frowned up. _True._

_“Not your parents, however.’’_

_“No. My mother…. she was raised with the ideals of the Resistance.’’_ Yes, and no. “ _And she thought…differently. That this world is not…an enemy, or lesser. She was---well, she was an explorer, I guess.’’_ True. But she had been so much more than that, too.  
She couldn’t tell him everything about her parents. For many reasons, but primarily because it was too painful to talk about them. She could only offer generalised descriptions of them, hoping that a panic attack would not get triggered in the process.  
The grief sat heavy in her chest. 

Fay is unsure how her mother – and father – started travelling to that world, but it had only happened a couple of times. _False_. Her mother had told her that it was a dangerous endeavour, which could put a significant toll on the body. However, she had kept journals and souvenirs and other items from her travels – books, music, photos – of that world that Fay had been privy to as a child. _True._

_“Sun Tzu, Kipling, Dickens.’’_

_“Y-Yes…I had---I had different books on them.’’_

Her parents had never disclosed the full details of their travels to that realm, mentioning that she was not old enough to learn, nor she would have been allowed to travel so young given the risks. _Not entirely false._ Travelling to that world was illegal. _Truth._ Her mother, an explorer, had found a way to do so in secret but there were few people other than herself who knew how to do it. _Partially true._ Fay had started thinking about travelling to that world because she had been curious about it. _True. Not the only reason, though._ She had tried using her mother’s journal to find a way to travel between the worlds herself, after running away from home. It was during that journey that she came across a man claimed he knew the way between worlds. _True. Mostly._

“ _And?_ ’’

_“…. I don’t remember much after. He, um, asked for payment so I gave him some of the stones and then he showed me these…. runes. Like an incantation. But---I don’t remember much of what happened next. He said that the runes would activate a portal, but I don’t remember how we ended up crossing it.’’_

It wasn’t false information. Fay truly could not remember how she and Bagheera ended up in that world. However, she doubted Damian would react well if he knew that people from her world had regularly been sent there to study his. Hypocritically, it was the very same men and women who dismissed the existence of an ‘outside world’ or vilified it, that were responsible for such secret operations being conducted.

The Seekers’ existence has never been made public, not even after the Resistance won. These individuals were not warriors per se as much as explorers, their only purpose being that to observe how other worlds evolved and developed. Officially, anyway. Her father had told her that Seekers had perpetuated crimes on behalf of ‘furthering progress’ although there were different times when that happened. The Seekers’ activities had presumably stopped when the Council ruled their world should not engage in such exploratory missions anymore. Fay knew that was not entirely accurate. There were Seekers who had chosen to permanently settle in that world, in the lives they’ve built around their false identities, but they had means to communicate with the Council on a regular basis. Some of these men and women were based in Europe.

It was that information that had spurred Fay to consider her interworld travels seriously. She had also omitted in telling Damian that she initially sought one of her parent’s old friends, who had knowledge of their travels to other realms. Disappointingly enough, she was unable to track him down. With her only other choice being to tuck tail and return home, she had tried to seek one of the ‘hidden paths’ that her mother had told her about.

The Resistance had found ways to travel between the worlds in an alternative manner that of Seekers and while Fay didn’t have all the details, she knew that the primary difference was the ‘hidden paths’ were far more dangerous and unpredictable than the portals Seekers used. Such portals were not an option, naturally. It wasn’t as if the Council would grant her permission to travel just because she did not have the courage to face her own failures and humiliation.

Seeing as she chose not to talk to Damian about the Seekers, she had left that part out completely along with much other information on the Resistance.

Fay hadn’t been entirely dishonest – her mother had not shown her how to find and use the ‘hidden paths’ and she did come across a man named Len who helped her. His knowledge presumably came from a former Seeker he had known in the past. When telling the story to Damian, she only mentioned that Len had seemed convincing enough about knowing a way between worlds. 

_“You trusted a stranger to just offer you a passage between worlds.’’_

_“Um, no. I mean---I didn’t think I would. I was…curious and I wanted to see the information he had. I remember…. I remember thinking that I would not use it but---but I guess, I did. I can’t remember beyond that. Bag doesn’t either.’’_

_“You are here so there had to be some validity to his claims. As you do not remember, however, there’s no say if you were the only one who crossed over.’’_

_“…. I don’t think there were other people. Not from my last memory. The man had said that the passage can be fatal. That’s why---I had changed my mind. Or—or I thought I did. I was…afraid something would happen to Bag.’’_

She remembers Len talking to her the ritual requiring significant amounts of energy which is why he wanted to wait out on a storm. To use its power. That was the last thing she and Bag remembered. Since that moment until she opened her eyes and realized she was in that world, there was a constant gap in her memories. Fay had also expected to arrive in Europe which is why she had been wanting to travel there. _True._

Like the boy pointed out, they were there, so Len must have been telling the truth about the passage.

_“You’ve mentioned such travels are uncommon and highly restricted so there must be laws forbidding them.’’_

_“…There are.’’_

_“You are in violation of them by being here.’’_

_“Yes.’’_

_“What is the punishment for someone who breaks such a law?’’_

_“…. I am not entirely sure. I, um, don’t remember how I got here, and I haven’t travelled here to…to cause harm.’’_

_“But you are talking to an outsider. You are disclosing information about your world, even if generalised accounts. Would you not be considered a traitor?’’_

_“…yeah. I guess.’’_

_“You guess? You planned your escape from your family, sought out a dangerous way to travel between worlds but did not consider the consequences of doing so?’’_

She did. But she hadn’t assumed she would succeed. She had hoped Baije, her mother’s old friend, would be the one to guide her in using the ‘hidden paths’ which very few people knew about and that he’d also show her a way back. The Council did not know about the hidden paths, not as far as she knew. Even if they did, her parents had told her about the alternative passage between worlds in confidence, just as they had about the Seekers. Her family might have even figured out what she was planning but they would never report her, no matter how furious they were bound to be. Still over six months later, nobody had come after them, so she assumed nobody knew yet.

Truth was that she had hoped she would get to speak to her family first before anyone else in her world realised who she was. She had even planned on potentially telling the Seekers she and Bag had been sent there against their will (for all she could remember, that might be true).

Fay told Damian the reason she wanted to go to Europe was because she had wanted to explore it. The culture, the landmarks, the art. It was all true. But she also wanted to travel to Europe because that’s where the semi-retired Seekers were supposedly stationed, rotating every year between countries. They allegedly communicated with one another via encrypted messages. Her mother had taught her about codes and secret ways of communicating but Fay had yet to figure out how the Seekers communicated in that world. There were just so many communication outlets and so far, she hadn’t found any signs of secret messages being passed. Social media still eluded her, so if they used that, Fay wasn’t sure how she’ll figure it out. The world had changed significantly from the time her parents had visited it so it was safe to assume the Seekers must’ve adapted in the process, changing their codes as well.

Either way, she did not tell Damian about it. If she did, and he somehow figured it out, he would inevitably find out about the Seeker’s existence. 

There was always a chance her lies would come bite her in the ass, but she was…afraid. Fay did not think of Damian negatively, certainly not the way she used to but there was no guarantee he won’t choose his duties as Robin over any promise he made her. People broke their promises all the time. Many had with Fay. She would understand if he did, because it was obvious he only saw her as an ally of sorts ‘against a common enemy’ (which stung, but she ignored it, feeling foolish about how sensitive she was being) so she had to be cautious. 

Fay wouldn’t have faced punishment if she had managed to return home with no one knowing about her real identity. She wasn’t sure what the Council would do to her if they knew that she was exposing information on her world to high-profile individuals such as Damian and his father. 

_“I did. I just…. things happened fast and um, then I woke up in this world. We both did. It was…too late to do anything about it.’’_

Almost a week since Halloween, Fay found herself sitting in the Batcave after a quick, dizzying tour from Alfred.

_It’s an…actual bat cave._

_Huh._

Bruce Wayne and Richard Grayson were watching her which was nerve wracking. Bruce was an intimidating man, and she knew enough about the Dark Knight to understand how privileged she was in seeing the man behind the cowl. He was a living legend (Fay knew a thing or two about being amongst legends). Dick, too, had a reputation of his own and from the brief interactions between him and Damian, she could tell the man was a mentor to the boy.

Fay had questions, too—but she hardly voiced any of them. She already knew too much to begin with and she wasn’t sure if she’d gained the right to ask anything about their identities or roles as protectors of Gotham.

Bruce and Damian shared the same frown. Dick was more approachable, so when discussing how she came upon George Sander’s USB key, she had instinctively looked at him more. Damian was standing next to her, and although she couldn’t see him – she could feel his presence. It was equally unnerving and comforting. Besides Bagheera, he was the only other familiar element in that moment. 

When she finished, Dick looked rather amused and he looked to her left side. He was exchanging a look with Damian.

She didn’t dare look up at the boy.

“…What?’’ She asked meekly, feeling self-conscious. Her face felt as if it was on fire.

“Nothing. Actually---that’s pretty good work.’’ The man said with a smile. “Quite a detective, huh?’’ He sounded slightly teasing but not in a mocking way, so she didn’t take offense.

Fay shrugged, feeling embarrassed. “Um, I…just like researching things, I guess.’’ 

“Do you know what creatures you and Damian fought back at the compound were?’’ Bruce asked, after a moment. He had not uttered a word the entire time she was there, just listening. His stern countenance reminded her of her uncle, so she wasn’t entirely intimidated by him, but she did feel as if she was under a microscope because he had the same scrutinising eyes as Damian. His tone hadn’t been unkind, however nor he looked at her in a malicious way.

Bag would have reacted if he did, but her paladin felt calm so far.

Fay blinked. They would know she was lying if she said no.

“I think they were…chimeras.’’ She admitted, then grimaced. “But something was wrong with them.’’ 

“Chimeras?’’ Damian repeated, and she nodded, still without looking up at him.

Fay glanced at her paladin, who met her gaze and blinked twice, offering silent approval to continue. “I suppose chimeras mean something different in my world but it’s generally to refer to…. hybrid species. Like plants or animals. Bagheera is a chimera, too. He carries wolf DNA, which is why, well, he looks like one.’’ Anxiety fluttered in her chest. Was it okay for her to offer such information? “Most chimeras are not like the ones---like the ones the Angel had used. They looked as if---someone had done something to them.’’ She pursued her lips. “As if there were multiple chimeras in one. That’s not---natural. Even in my world.’’ Yes and no. It was a complex topic to discuss, even in her world so it was best to try and avoid going into detail altogether. She risked venturing into a discussion she was not ready or wanted to have with them.

“Do you think someone experimented on them?’’ Dick asked.

Fay shrugged. “…I think so. I don’t know much about that.’’ It was true, to an extent. She hoped they wouldn’t prod any further. “But—um,’’ She faltered, and she felt all three pairs of eyes on her. “If they were…. I don’t think it was voluntary.’’ Who would want to be turned into a mindless beast?

Never mind, that. That was also a loaded topic.

There is no going back for creatures such as the ones that attacked her and Damian. Their biology had been permanently altered and it was not reversible, not as far as she knew. Dick looked like he believed her, but she got the sense Bruce wasn’t entirely satisfied with her judgement call to kill them. Bagheera felt it too because she felt trickles of apprehension projecting off him as she kept her hand buried in his fur.

Damian surprised her.

“They resisted all of her attempts at incapacitating them, ignoring their own injuries in favour of trying to kill us.’’ He piped up, suddenly closer than she thought him to be, making look up at him, startled. She almost brushed her head against his elbow, he was standing _that_ close with his arms crossed over his chest and leaning against the table behind them. Damian wasn’t looking at her but at his father.

That’s when she realised that…

…. _he is defending me. Or at least…justifying my actions._

“I believe you.’’ Bruce said, but Fay wasn’t sure if it was directed at her or his son. “What about the parasite?’’

Most of their conversation went like that. Their questions weren’t that surprising, all things considered so Fay tried to be as cooperative as possible. She told them about the senwi. It is a parasitic fungus that thrives in hotter environments and does so by cannibalising on other living creatures. The fungus itself is common to only certain parts of her world and not generally within the vicinity of settlements because there are pesticides to counteract it that are being used. It reproduces quickly but if there are no viable hosts to move to, it will not last more than seconds. A few minutes at most.

Individuals with a strong immune system will not fall prey to it as easily, as evidenced by Damian himself. If inhaled, the spores can still affect a person, but it would depend on the quantity and again, their own immunity system. When received in the bloodstream, however, it will develop much easier and be undetectable for at least forty-eight hours. No symptoms. The fungus metamorphizes into pouch-like of poison that continues to grow, passing through several different stages with the fourth one being fatal and generally irreversible. The hyphae invade soft issues and then the cardiovascular system while paralytic toxins incapacitate the host. The fourth stage is one of excruciating pain. Antibiotics are useless by then. If the mycelia sprout too far, attaching to arteries and organs, surgery is also no longer an option.

Fay was more open in educating about the senwi---just in case they would come across it again. She did not want them or civilians to end up harmed by it. There is a last resort solution – the senwi does not like cold. It also does not respond well to electric currents as she had proved when she used the taser on Damian.

Once removed, the fungus could still break open so it must be handled carefully.

Which she did not, as Damian remarked. Fay wanted to point out that she would not be affected as easily either, but then she remembered how poor her own health was. She just shrugged instead. Truth be told, she hadn’t really thought about herself in that moment. The parasite died immediately after she removed it, so no harm, no foul.

Then they asked her about a drawing Damian had made (of course, she almost forgot about his artistic ability).

He had drawn a spherical object with curving indentations around it. There was one going around the sphere right in the middle, the only one coloured, in a dark shade of blue. Damian told her that the device had gone off in Finnegan’s pocket, in turn causing the explosion in the building she had ventured in. Fay was not familiar with any _blue_ substances capable of triggering an explosion of that nature, so she had told him she wasn’t sure. Fay had seen bombs of similar size and shape before and had even practiced with ones of lower intensity, but she was not sure what the indentations represented. It could be a warrior personalising their weapons, almost like a signature or it could be marks representative of a guild. None of which she was familiar with, however.

“I’ve seen something familiar---they can be activated by moving the upper or bottom part.’’ Fay mentioned, making a motion with her hands as if she was rotating one side of an imaginary sphere. “But---I’ve never used one.’’ Not ones capable of such destruction, anyway. 

Damian tutted but he didn’t prob any further. Then he told her about Finnegan and how he had become rabid after he swallowed a dark capsule. He behaved similarly to the chimeras; except he had largely retained his human appearance.

Fay frowned at him. “…a dark capsule?’’ She knew of several ways an individual could go feral, but none of them involved pills so she just shook her head and told them that in that regard, she was not able to help. Fay vaguely had knowledge of some plants being able to cause one’s primal instincts to go haywire, switching them to an almost primitive state but they were nowhere potent enough to cause a person to act the way Finnegan had.

“…. None of them would cause dark pupils, either.’’ She added.

Grayson pointed out to the other two vigilantes that perhaps it was a modified version of Venom. Using the plants, she described would be potentially enough to cause the substance to become more potent. Fay just listened quietly, not asking what Venom was (although she got a general idea). 

They asked her if she had seen Angela Russo before, which she hadn’t or if she had heard or seen anything that might have been useful during her time at the compound. Unfortunately, she could not help in that regard either. In the end, Damian had been the one to end the interrogation after she started feeling exhausted again. Dick smiled and thanked her for answering all their questions, to which Bruce nodded as well. He didn’t thank her, but he did tell her that she could stay until she was well enough.

The moment they were back in her bedroom, Fay had nearly pushed Damian out of the way as she rushed to the bathroom, taken by surprise by a strong sense of nausea. She didn’t have much to vomit but in some ways that made it worse. Bagheera stayed in her vicinity, trying to comfort her by projecting his own emotions onto her. Damian stayed with her, as well, pushing her hair back as she ended up kneeling over the toilet. He didn’t try to comfort her, but when she was done, he hovered as she stumbled to the sink so she could cleanse her mouth and then kept close as she walked back to the bedroom. When she lost her balance a few times, he steadied her but otherwise didn’t touch her.

It was equal parts unnerving and thoughtful to have him follow her like a shadow. Only Bagheera did that generally but well, he was Bagheera. That was different. 

Fay climbed in bed, then crawled under the duvet.

Damian said something but she didn’t catch it.

“…what?’’ She mumbled, exhaustion creeping in like a silent enemy and making her feel drowsy.

“Just go to sleep.’’

_‘You did well.’_

_‘’You have an accent. Your English is fluent, however.’’_

_‘’It’s not…uncommon. My parents taught me. Not many people know it.’’_

The ‘outsider’ languages were not popular, no. English had been used by some factions of the Resistance, but there were not many who bothered in learning it just as they did not care about anything else to do with that world.

_“But you do.’’_

_“Yes. I guess---I am different.’’_

Her parents spoke to her in English all the time, so she had learned it along with several other languages that she was expected to know. Often, the four of them would use it amongst themselves, as their own secret language. Her uncle, Moma and a few others were familiar with it as well, but they rarely ever used it. Fay, herself, had gotten teased over it in the past.

_“Are there other languages you’re familiar with?’’_

_“…not really. Maybe just words or—or general knowledge. I’ve been researching them---at the museum, too. Italian, and um, Spanish and many others. Some of them sound really…. nice.’’_

They sounded beautiful to her ears. Her mother spoke more than just English and while Fay had never learned other ‘outsider’ languages fluently, she was familiar with several others. She couldn’t tell Damian---it was too painful to talk about it.

_“You haven’t told me yet. About Maysoon.’’_

Hundreds of thousands of warriors have tried to conquer and tame the fabled jungles known as the ‘ _garden of the gods’_. The jungle never allowed them. Its allure drew many souls to it but very few ever made it out. Conquerors, in their spite and anger, have even tried to destroy it.

If they could not have it, then no one else would. They all failed, of course. Until a warrior named Tora came along. He succeeded where others failed, building a village right in the heart of the jungle.

Maysoon.

Her homeland.

People didn’t know or preferred not to acknowledge the origin of that name. There was never a reason to question either because legend has it that Maysoon was the name of the woman Tora was in love with it. She was a legendary warrior, an idol amongst female warriors. Tales and poems describe her as incredibly beautiful, as well. It is unclear how she died except that she did so young, and many believe that she was the sacrifice the jungle requested of Tora in exchange for living there. It would explain why he wanted to commemorate her by naming the village after her.

_“Do you believe that?’’_

_“…I don’t know. I prefer—I prefer the other interpretation. That she became a guarding spirit.’’_

_“Hmph. Spiritual, are we?’’_

_“Hm. Maybe.’’_

If only he knew what the jungle was really like. What it was capable of. It wasn’t just a dangerous territory of exotic flora and fauna. 

_“Maysun aism jayd.’’_

_“…. huh?’’_

_“It’s Arabic.’’_

_“You---you can speak it?’’_

_“Tch. I can speak nine languages fluently. Arabic is my natal langua--- what?’’ _

_“No—nothing. It’s just…. amazing. I mean…I never met anyone who knew it. I don’t even know that much about it. What----what was that you said?’’_

_“Maysun aism jayd. Maysoon is a good name.’’_

_“Can you say more things---I mean; I know you can, but will…will you tell me?’’_

_“…..’’_

_“Please?’’_

_“-Tt-. Maybe. After you finish telling me about your homeland and how you got here.’’_

_“…. I already did. I mean about how I got to this world---‘’_

_“Gotham. How you got to Gotham.’’_

Maysoon is one of four empires, ranking second to Atlabas Empire, size-wise. All empires’ dominion had fluctuated throughout history but Maysoon had remained an uncontested power for centuries because of its resources and strong lines of warriors. The Empire is currently divided in twelve regions, which are led semi-autonomously by different rulers. Several of them come from long lines of warrior clans, going as far as Tora’s times even. It was the ancestors and founding fathers of such clans that contributed in Maysoon’s expansion and development from a village to a powerful empire.

Maysoon’s royal clan, descendent from Tora himself that had stayed in power for hundreds of years, with the Emperor and Empresses as absolute monarchs. The mounting number of revolutions and subsequent wars in the past century have led to the decentralisation of power, however. The rulers of the twelve regions had been offered autonomy in the process, with the Empire’s ruler no longer having the authority to act solely as judge, jury, and executioner. The current Emperor, for example, is still a powerful political figure and the twelve region rulers respond to him, but they have more freedom over their own territories and the right to take part in decision-making that affect the Empire overall.

There is also the Grand Council. An intergovernmental organisation whose mission is to preserve security, peace, and friendly relations between all four Empires: Maysoon, Atlabas, Aedyr and Vontagor. There are territories not subject to any of the empire’s dominion. Tribes, villages, smaller kingdoms. Some had agreed to the Council’s laws, while others have chosen to remain independent.

_“You grew up in Maysoon.’’_

_“…yeah.’’_

_“Is your family one of warriors as well?’’_

Damn it. She had hoped he wouldn’t ask. Had purposefully skirted around that topic.

_“…My father’s family, yes. He---he was one. A warrior. My mother was…. she was an explorer.’’_

In a way. She was certainly an adventurer. 

It hurt when she breathed.

_“You were trained to be a warrior?’’_

_“…. Yes.’’ ---- “I am---I am not one.’’_

_“Hn.’’_

They were seated facing opposite directions that day as they sat on one of the stone benches outside. Daily one-hour walks had become a habit in her second week there.

Fay was glad he could not see her face because she felt like crying.

_Please. Please don’t ask me about it. Or my parents._

_I just…. can’t._

“ _Tell me about how you got to Gotham.’’_

_Does he know? How much it hurts._

_“…Well. It’s a long story.’’_

_“Last time I checked, you had nowhere to be.’’_

Fay felt like kicking him again. But she also felt relieved.

When Fay woke up in that world, she found herself in South America. A Colombian city on the Amazon river, with a small population, at least compared to Gotham. Several thousands, at most. She was taken in and tended to by one of the fishermen and his family. Their oldest son, Camilo, spoke English better than his parents and told her that she was found on the shore. It looked as if she had been brought in by the water currents.

She was alone. No sight of Bagheera.

Fay had tried looking for him, but she was disoriented, confused and well, frightened. The merchant and his family were kind and generous and gave her food and shelter for a few days. She told them that she did not remember who she was or where she came from, so three days later, Camilo told her that they were going to have the local authorities help her.

Panicked at the idea of being asked questions she could not answer, Fay escaped in the rainforest. She had grown up in a jungle, so it was perhaps the closest thing in that world that reminded her of home. In some ways she found it easy to adapt there, so she spent several days learning her surroundings and trying to think about her next steps. Fay decided to keep moving, as she hoped Bagheera had made it safely and that he was also in that part of the world. After approximately two weeks, Fay came across a girl, around sixteen or seventeen years old, running through the jungle. She was injured, and frightened.

There were two armed men chasing her. Fay attacked them. At the time she was in a much better psychical shape and she had access to her flux, so it came easier to her to do that. The girl, Eva, didn’t speak English so Fay did not understand much of what she spoke. Unfortunately, they were not left alone for long---several other men came after them. Fay was knocked out and kidnapped along with Eva, taken to a camp where there were other people being held against their will. One of the prisoners spoke English and told her that the men holding them are criminals trafficking in drugs and humans.

Fay attempted to remove her bracelets using the ritual meant to remove them.

It did not work. In fact, she only experienced pain.

They were transported to another location. The Darien Gap.

_“The Darien Gap is one of the most dangerous jungles in this world.’’_

_“…I didn’t know that, at the time. I mean, the other prisoners mentioned it, but I was—I was really confused about where we were.’’_

_“Do you think it’s a coincidence? You grew up in one of the most dangerous jungles of your world, as you said it yourself. Now you found yourself in a similar territory.’’_

_“I am not sure if it’s a coincidence. It…doesn’t feel that way, does it?’’_

In a way it had been a blessing. In others, a series of wretched circumstances.

Bagheera found her. He had been tracking her down for miles, and he also had her backpack. He had no voice to tell her in detail of his own adventures but from what Fay was able to get from him, he had quite a journey himself. He helped her escape and in return, Fay destroyed the camp---it was the last time she used the flux in such a manner. Until Halloween night, that is. When she attempted to remove the bracelets again, they burned her skin and she assumed it was her fault. That maybe she screwed up the ritual or the travel to that world had affected the bracelets in an unexpected way.

She didn’t have obvious symptoms to begin with.

Fay and Bag helped many of the hostages to escape and it was one of the men there who helped them, as a reward. His family was in Mexico City and he led them there, after which they parted ways. Fay and Bagheera travelled by foot all the way to the border between Mexico and U.S, where they discovered just how difficult and complicated the passage from one territory to another is. They ultimately crossed the Rio Grande and were almost captured by the border agents.

They moved for almost entire day incessantly, and ultimately had to seek shelter on a farm in Texas. Fay admitted that she broke in, more out of thirst rather than hunger but Bagheera was starving. He had used his battle form twice in the span of a few weeks, and they hadn’t really eaten or rested properly ever since their arrival in that world. He did attack one of the goats.

_“Erm, I am sorry. I know you’ve asked me if…. I committed any crimes.’’_

_“…did anybody catch or see you?’’_

The farm owner did come after them, but it was night, so they escaped.

Initially, anyway.

Fay didn’t want them to spend their entire journey breaking into homes, so she tried to pawn off one of the stones.

_“What stones?’’_

_“Erm, right. I—I didn’t tell you about them. Well…. you see, um,’’_

_“Cut to the chase. If you stole them, it’d hardly be the most surprising of your actions so far.’’_

_“I didn’t steal them! I mean, not really….not all of them.’’_

_“You don’t make any sense.’’_

Because it was complicated. When Fay ran away from home, she took money and precious stones with them, along with well-prepared equipment. She even had weapons and medical supplies (most of which was lost or stolen or has been used). It may have been a spur of the moment decision to leave that day – seizing the opportunity – but she had been tentatively planning for weeks. Truth was, she didn’t think she’d ever go ahead with it.

“ _What changed?’’_

_“I---‘’_

She had heard her uncle discuss her ‘situation’. He wanted to send her away to one of Maysoon’s territories – to stay there for an indeterminate amount of time. Fay hadn’t been privy to the entire discussion, but she had caught enough information to feel concerned. Her fears have done a good job at supplying her with worst case scenarios and at that point, she really could not exclude any of them. Not after everything that had happened.

So, she waited until they left the capital. Both her and Bag made a run for it during their second stop.

_“…I did. I changed my mind. I---I guess really did want to see this world.’’_

It was true. But it was hardly the only reason.

It was the safest one she could bring up (for the sake of her own heart).

_“The stones. Tell me about them.’’_

Most of her money and several of the stones went to Len.

Fay didn’t tell him she had a few more of precious stones from her world left. Not about all of them anyway. She had done her research– some of the stones didn’t exist in that world, so, they were irrelevant. If anything, those stones are bound to cause her more issues. Maybe she’ll tell him later.

Maybe.

That still left her with other stones, some which both worlds had in common, such as emeralds. The diamonds were not hers---she had gotten those from one of the men in the jungle. It wasn’t as much that she desired them as she didn’t want them to have it, and once again, she had acted on instinct when taking them.

But she does not wish to use them if it can be helped.

_“Why not?’’_

_“…people died for those diamonds. I don’t---it doesn’t feel right.’’_

_“Even for your own survival?’’_

_“…I mean, I didn’t try to pawn the diamonds.’’_

There was a gold bracelet, instead, that she tried to pawn. It had small stones encrusted in it but that was not its most unique feature.

It was the design that was eye-catching.

That bracelet had been one of Moma’s. Hardly the most valuable of items that she could have taken and perhaps the least valuable one she had in her backpack. She kept that information to herself, however. 

Fay liked to think that she wouldn’t have been upset if she knew – it was for their own survival. She also knew that she was taking risks trying to pawn it – a weird, dirty child walks in a store saying she found a bracelet that was worth thousands digging in the dirt (she even got the bracelet dirty to make it plausible). The pawn shop owner offered her thirty dollars saying it was a fake, which she knew was a lie. She refused, even if thirty dollars would have been useful as well. The other man that worked there – maybe his son – had followed her out of the store and tried to accost her. Bagheera scared him off.

Later, she found herself with authorities after her. It seems she had been reported as having stolen it from him.

Bastard.

They ran away again, hiding onto someone’s property. The man who lived there, had allowed her inside and gave her food. She didn’t talk so he assumed she was a mute. The woman who came to help him with chores around the house – he was paralysed from the waist down – ended up reporting them after she realized she might have been the child who stole the bracelet. Fay and Bag didn’t realize until it was too late.

They did end up escaping, and the man – Louis – gave her money, allowing her to leave.

She left him with the bracelet, if only for his kindness. And hoping the authorities would stop chasing them.

After that, they walked and ran and hopped on trains and buses.

They did steal throughout their journey – food and sometimes money – and they sometimes broke in other people’s houses if Bagheera could tell it was empty, and if there were no cameras. Fay never stole from those who looked as if they didn’t have much themselves, and she would lie if she said she didn’t purposefully target men and women who looked wealthy (although she refrained from disclosing that part). A couple of times she almost got caught but she was hardly newsworthy if anyone did report her. Fay always ensured Bagheera wasn’t seen with her in those moments because people were bound to remember the large, black wolf accompanying a thieving child.

They arrived in Gotham by chance. Or rather because the train they were on – heading to New York – had to be abandoned when a conductor discovered them. She and Bag were chased – again – and they ended up sneaking on a cargo train.

A train that came to Gotham.

They roamed the city for a while before finding Dana’s soup kitchen, where they returned to for several days in a row. 

Then Dana told her about the attic and allowed them to stay in there. It was meant to be temporary, but the woman gave her a job and food, so they decided to stay.

It took them approximately three months to get there. Would have taken longer had it not been for them having experience in travelling long, difficult distances. Fay’s stamina decreased along the way and she lost weight, but she had assumed it was because of the lack of nutrition. Her flux also became fainter and whenever she attempted to use it for more than a couple of minutes, the bracelets would hurt her.

She had been in Gotham for a month when she first met Damian at the museum.

_“Wh-what?’’_

_“Hn. Nothing.’’_

_You are just full of surprises, aren’t you?_

_“You’ve been sitting on thousands worth of stones in one of the most dangerous cities in this part of the world.’’_

_“Well…what choice did I have?’’_

_You could have told me._

_“—Tt—Do you still have them?’’_

_“Um, yeah. They’re in the attic.’’_

_She must’ve hidden them. The floor. Or the walls._

_“Give them to me.’’_

_“W-why?’’_

_“What do you think? I will have them appraised and ensure you get the right amount for them.’’_

_“…. Really?’’_

_She doesn’t trust me. Still._

That needs to be addressed.

_“You’ll also need to tell me which locations you passed through.’’_

_“Huh?’’_

_“Damage control. In case you or Bagheera have been seen by anybody, or if there’s any existing reports on you.’’_

_“I, um, okay.’’_

The girl had been in his house for ten days now, but Bruce had only seen her up-close twice. When he brought her in and later when they ended up semi-interrogating her. Damian was being careful about her presence there, with him or Alfred always accompanying her when she was out of the room. It didn’t take long the Dark Knight to figure that it wasn’t just because he wanted to make sure she wasn’t snooping. In fact, that may not have been the reason at all, despite what his son may say or act like.

He was being borderline possessive of her. Fay, to her credit, had cooperated with them although she was clearly frightened and anxious about them knowing her secret. She was not a threat, not yet but that didn’t mean they shouldn’t ask questions. His son agreed, but there were subtle behavioural markers that spoke volumes of what he thought of the girl. Theirs wasn’t a friendship, partly due to the circumstances and who they were, and partly because Damian didn’t know how to make friends and her social skills didn’t seem that much better. At least it didn’t seem they considered themselves as. When Alfred told him of the time they’ve spending together – discussing, shopping (?) – it was clear that their strange arrangement wasn’t just a business affair.

Alfred had also told him he became acquainted with the girl over the last _several weeks_ seeing as Damian kept interfering in her life. It all started after she ventured in the building Finnegan’s bomb had destroyed and helped him and a child and his dog. Dick told him that she had run away right after that as he was one who pulled her and Damian away from the balcony. Bruce wasn’t surprised his son tracked her down with the same pathos he would a criminal. Rewarding her? Not necessarily strange. The way he had gone about it? Well, that was interesting. 

He went out of his way to approach her, to introduce himself as Damian Wayne. When she refused his offer, he insisted. Out of pride, most likely.

But not only.

He brought her to the penthouse several times. Issued a one-week challenge time during which he pitted her against qualified, grown up men and women without her knowing, so he could test her determination and skills (she succeeded, at least by Damian’s standards, which in itself, was a feat). Then he gave her an identity and allowed her to ‘volunteer’ at the museum, where he had been spending inordinate amounts of time at.

Well.

That was a puzzle (he’d never admit he didn’t know how to approach the subject without saying the wrong things, so he preferred treating the situation as if it was a case).

The question was why. Damian had no idea about her abilities or her being of another world until Halloween night, and while Bruce believes his son is smart enough to have deduced something was out of ordinary about her, Damian did not have to go out of his way to communicate with her.

Just like he did not have to take acting lessons, but he did and kept it a secret.

That’s what Fay was. Or how he treated her as.

A secret. At no point Damian talked to him about her (although admittedly, they barely communicated while he was away). Alfred was only privy to everything because the boy had asked for his help and Dick knew bits and pieces.

Damian went to see her several throughout the week, after she woke up. While he recovered and was forbidden from patrolling, he seems to have done so while Bruce was out (that was on purpose, Damian didn’t want him to know). Then, after he was cleared for duty and returned to patrol, he had gone to her several times in the early hours of the morning, after they returned. She must’ve been awake given her irregular sleeping patterns because he didn’t always do it.

Outwardly, he didn’t behave any differently than before. Not even on patrol. But perhaps he was acting a bit _too_ normal.

The boy wasn’t also telling him everything he and the girl discussed. Some information, he was hoarding it to himself.

Bruce wanted to show Damian he was being trusted so he left it alone. 

For now.

He wanted Damian to experience normal bonds as well, not limit his lifestyle to fighting and training. He was still just a child, after all.

But the Dark Knight wouldn’t be who he was if he didn’t consider a scenario in which Damian would no longer be objective, in which his perception was compromised. Batman had a duty to step in if that happened, just it was his responsibility to explore the risks that came with having -another- otherworldly creature living there. His son may expect him to do that but for the time being, Bruce would not comment on it.

As a father, he did enjoy seeing how much his son had grown since the first time they met.

_“Damian?’’_

_“What?’’_

_“What---what happens now?’’_

_“You can stay here until you’re well enough to function on your own.’’_

_“And then?’’_

_“You won’t go back to the attic.’’_

_“Oh.’’_

_“I have made arrangements for an alternative accommodation. You will be safe there, and I am certain you’ll enjoy the amenities you’ll have.’’_

_“O-okay. Is it---is it okay if I said goodbye to Dana?’’_

_“Don’t be an idiot. Once the Angel is apprehended, you’re allowed to speak and see her.’’_

_“What if she’s not caught?’’_

_“She will be. Until that happens, you need to lay low. The new accommodation will be the perfect place to do that.’’_

_“Alright…. Thank you.’’_

_‘Thank you.’_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few notes I would like to make, now that Fay has revealed more about where she comes from and who she is (more or less): 
> 
> \- Fay's anxiety and paranoia will not vanish just because of what happened on the night of Halloween. She trusts Damian more and her perception of him has changed (positively, so). But she does have a tendency to question people's motivations and be wary of secret agendas (several reasons, which will be gradually revealed in the future). 
> 
> \- I have kept the information on her world rather generalised, not only because it fits Fay's concerns about protecting her world but also because I haven't finished building her world. I do not want to put information that will later need to be changed. I also want to keep the element of surprise as there's certainly more - lots- stuff coming up.  
> Also, imagine being in her place and having to describe your world someone else. 
> 
> \- I like keeping my characters complicated, at least for the time being. People are complicated, and so are emotions. Damian is certainly a difficult, complex character and so is Fay, to an extent. Their motivations and thoughts are never so simple.
> 
> \- My apologies if the Arabic is not correct. I don't know the language (although I would love to) so I must rely on google translate (which is not particularly reliable).


	18. Of recovery and changes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, folks! Sorry for the late update. The past week has been insane. To make up for it, I shall give you 2 chapters today, and I hope you enjoy them. 
> 
> *Guests are now able to comment as well.  
> *A big thank you to my Beta-reader AegyoButPsycho for supporting me with proof reading and always being so encouraging.

_"Do not worry that your life is turning upside down._

_How do you know that the side you are used to is better than the one to come?"_

\- Rumi

.

.

.

 _11_ _th_ _of November_

Angela Russo was tracked down on the other side of the country. In Portland. 

She was dead. 

Her financial and weaponry sponsorship had attracted a sizable number of criminals willing to work for her. Still, in her desire to reaffirm herself and consolidate power, she had also made many enemies. Such as the Russian Mafia. Throughout the years, Angela had sabotaged several of their operations, stealing money and weaponry in the process, which is when the 'Angel' started leaving its signature behind. It is unclear how she survived the assassination attempt or how she got the resources to kickstart her criminal endeavours. 

They don't have information on how she came in possession of items from Fay's realm, either. Damian suspected she was not the last criminal who'll weaponize the senwi, chimeras, or foreign explosives. His theory was that she was but a cog in a much more comprehensive network of criminals with access to such weapons, and there may be more than just one sponsor behind the entire operation. 

Whoever it was, the likelihood they knew about Fay's existence or that she was helping them is low. Damian wants to keep it that way to maintain their advantage. 

And, yes, to keep her safe as well. 

Fay had been cooperative, despite her apparent reservations and cautiousness. It was understandable. Her distrust of him was an issue and frustrating for reasons he preferred not acknowledging. She had no choice but to accept the arrangement he offered, so it was only a matter of time until she started opening up. There was progress to begin, although not as quick as he would have liked. Fay stuttered less and had become more talkative, openly voicing her confusion or ignorance in some issues relating to that world. He knew she was a curious creature, so not being able to freely ask questions in fear she might be discovered must have been a limitation she did not enjoy. Her curiosity had a way of overriding her anxieties, which he had already observed in the past but knowing each other's secrets had impacted her general attitude. 

She talked to Bagheera as if he was a person, which again, Damian knew she did but only because he had monitored her. Fay hadn't really done it in front of him before. 

She was more relaxed – smiled easier, even if only briefly (and not anywhere close to _that_ time) – and there was a general animation to her movements that hadn't been there before. Damian wouldn't say she was livelier but removing the bracelets had visibly improved her psychical state, and to smaller extents, her psychological one. In the first three days after she woke up, she didn't leave her bedroom. Fay slept between fifteen and eighteen hours in a twenty-four-hour span, her body behaving like a battery that struggled to recharge. The sedatives played a part in keeping her calm, and to his knowledge, she had only experienced nightmares twice. The first time, he had heard from his room, which was located down the hall, but when he had checked, he found Bagheera curled around her, using his abilities to calm her down. She had been shaking and crying in her sleep. He didn't interfere. 

The second time, he was on his way to check on her post-patrol, hoping she'd be awake so she could answer more questions. He had found her out of bed, huddled in the corner between the bathroom door and the window, looking terrorized as she clutched her head. Her marks which she hadn't been hiding as much, were visible underneath the short-sleeved shirt, and they glowed faintly, intermittently. A green hue. Bagheera had looked concerned, but he was keeping his distance, observing her. He had hesitantly allowed Damian to approach her. She didn't remember the next day, but Fay had muttered about smelling burning bodies and not being able to get the screams out of her head when he tried to calm her down. When he asked her about what happened to her parents, he had gauged the incident leading to their death had not been isolated just to them. Something bigger must have occurred. But she refused to talk about it, her eyes and face always darkening with an emotion he recognized, and he chose not to prod. It would not help in getting her to trust him. 

There were no other nightmares, but her sleeping patterns had remained irregular, her energy levels fluctuating. He took most of that energy, truth to be told, whenever he asked questions, but there was always the implicit choice, she could answer later, which she didn't take. On the fourth day, she asked him if she could go outside, and morning walks became a habit. On the same day, she had switched to solid foods. Her appetite was more robust than it's been, clearly, and it had much to make up for her, given her poor physical health. 

A week after she woke up, her sleeping time had reduced to an average of twelve hours. However, she could not go for more than three to four hours without feeling exhausted, nauseous, or experiencing migraines. All the symptoms have reduced in intensity, but Fay was unsure of the damage the bracelets had caused her. She was tight-lipped about the reason they were put on her, but she hadn't denied it when he asked if it was her family's choice. He didn't comment on her family's potential of wanting her dead because he could tell she was conflicted to begin with. 

They had sentenced her to a slow death. And based on what he knew, it was because she did not fit their expectations of a warrior. Fay hadn't explicitly said that, but he had seen the emotions flitting in her eyes when he asked about her upbringing. There was shame and guilt reflecting clearly in her features. If the warrior culture in her world was even half of the League of Assassins, Fay was likely counted as an outcast. A reject. She did not come across as warrior material---not entirely. 

But he had seen her fight. And she hadn't even been at full power, not if the bracelets have been sapping and blocking her flux, not with her weak psychical state. That meant Fay was capable of far more than she appeared to be. Her ingenuity in creating smoke bombs was not as surprising anymore, but it was still of interest given her character. Fay had proven on several occasions that she could shed her fears and reservations if the situation called for her to fight. For others, generally, not as much for herself. 

So, she wasn't entirely without hope. It must not have been enough for her family, though. 

(It certainly wouldn't have been enough for Talia.)

Damian wanted to know what else she knew. What else was she capable of. Fay knew pain in all of its dimensions, so he wondered if there were parallels to be drawn between their upbringing. He would have preferred if she stayed at the Manor. But she wasn't entirely comfortable there. Fay was a survivalist – an admirable one, judging by the tales she told him – and a resourceful, independent creature. She required her own space, even if it was provided by himself. If she was on his territory, she would not feel safe. She would not lower her guard. But if she had a space to claim as her own, one that she'd eventually allow him to access freely, it would offer her a sense of control. 

Ever since had she told him she grew up in a jungle - and the relatively easy way she adapted to the Amazonian jungle, and then Gotham - he couldn't stop picturing her as a wild creature that suddenly had to contend with being amongst species not of her own. 

In some ways, she was precisely that. 

. 

Damian had told her that Dana was told Fay had gotten injured on Halloween night, requiring her to be privately hospitalized. It had been a good thing they kept the details of her injuries vague because Dana would have found it strange if she saw Fay's third-degree burns reduced to superficial ones. The girl still had her wrists bandaged: the indentations left behind by the runes had yet to close correctly so, occasionally, they'd still bleed. If they kept healing at the rate they did, though, she shouldn't have any scars behind. 

In her absence, Dana had initially taken home the strays. She hadn't been happy about not being allowed to visit Fay at the 'private hospital' where she was kept, but her concerns were significantly assuaged by Fay calling her almost daily after she woke up. Fay had to keep her distance between her recovery and the threat of the Angel tracking her down. She did not want Dana, Robby, or Mack to be in danger because of her. But as soon as Damian confirmed to her that the Angel was dead, Fay asked him if she could go see Dana. He was reluctant but ultimately agreed, seeing as he wanted her to gather her belongings and make the transfer to the new accommodations. 

Fay hadn't realized that would happen so soon, but she didn't protest. Returning to the soup kitchen had put her in a good mood because it offered a strange sense of normalcy. The noises, the scents, Mack's radio and his gruff voice, Dana's perfume, and Robby's superhero t-shirts. Dana had, as expected, interrogated her on her whereabouts as soon as they saw each other. How injured was she, how it happened, if she had been treated well, if there was anything she needed. 

Then she found out that Dana now _owned_ the entire building. All three floors. The Martha Wayne Foundation saw to it, discreetly so. The previous landlord had been paid off in exchange for relinquishing the building, whose ownership was subsequently offered to Dana by the charitable foundation. Rent and bills were subsidized and covered for the better part by the foundation as well, on the condition that Dana expanded the soup kitchen and the services it offered.

Dana had space, the funds, and the freedom to put in motion all the plans she had previously put on the back burner. She had initially turned the offer down, thinking the timing was strange with Fay missing but had changed her mind after the girl contacted her. 

"You didn't have to do this, you know." 

Fay stared at her, bewildered still by the news. "I didn't ---I didn't know until now." Damian hadn't told her anything about it. Dana didn't believe her, pointing out that it could not have been a coincidence given Fay's friendship with Wayne, but thanked her. 

Then hugged her, and it was only days of constant rest that gave Fay the power to stop herself from crying. 

Dana told her that she didn't have to return to the attic---Fay, Bag, and the strays could come to stay with her and Robby because they'll be changing houses and there'll be a spare bedroom. Fay was incredibly touched by the offer but declined. It was a tempting offer, but far too risky. Plus, Damian had decided to live somewhere else, but Fay will make sure to come to visit her as often as possible. She still wanted to help in the soup kitchen. 

There'll be paid staff in the future, so there was no need, but Dana made her promise to keep in touch regularly. 

It wasn't until they were in the attic, Fay starting to pack up her belongings, that she was hit by a sudden sense of loss. That place hadn't ever been home, not the way Maysoon was, but she had made a shelter out of it. A place just for themselves after three months of roaming around for thousands of miles, after all the danger and obstacles they faced. Everything was changing fast, and she was meant to leave that place within a matter of hours. 

She could always return to it, Dana told her. She'll keep that space just for her. 

Fay had to pinch herself to stop herself from crying, feeling foolish over being so emotional about it. She was no stranger to her life turning upside down, and nothing could beat the way her entire world had shifted after _that_ night, but leaving the attic and the soup kitchen and the strangely comforting routine they had there was slightly perplexing. Bagheera comforted her, and after taking a few deep breaths, she had gone ahead and picked up the duffel bag that Alfred gave her. The essentials only because the rest will be collected after, apparently. 

"Bag?" She glanced at her paladin, who stood waiting for her by the attic's hatch. "Are you going to miss this place?" 

He blinked twice. 

Well, okay. At least she wasn't the only one. 

"Do you miss Maysoon, too?" 

_Yes._

Fay nodded to herself. The paladin approached, nudging her shoulder with his nose. " _Rgg_ …?" 

"I don't know. I mean, I miss the---the old days." She said tightly. "I do miss Titoh and everyone else but, um…. I am not sure." She missed the scents and the food and weather and the jungle. She missed her parents. So, _so_ much that it still managed to take her breath away. Many of the things she missed were from the days _before_. Fay did not forget everything that came after. The expectations and the hurt and the failures and the feeling that she's stepped into an alternate version of what her life used to be. At least in that world, she was far away from it. It almost made it easier to accept. Being psychically detached from her world helped.

Affection projected off Bagheera, and she smiled even though her eyes prickled with tears. "I am glad you're with me, Bag. I don't know what I'd do without you." 

When she pulled the items from the hiding spots, she was extra careful not to accidentally look at the photos that she kept tucked away, out of sight and out of mind. After filling her duffel and backpack, she left the books tucked to the side along with some other items she planned on taking, such as the fairy lights, the jumper Dana gave her, and some of the comic books that Robby left her with. There was a box too with mementos she gathered throughout the three-month journey, which she decided to take with her at that moment. 

Bagheera helped her by carrying the duffel bag, and she followed him, backpack strapped to her back and plastic box in her hands. Dana waited for her in the dance room studio, looking on, poorly masking her disappointment at seeing her leave. She reminded Fay – for the seventh or eighth time that morning – to call her, make sure she eats properly and that she comes by to visit, and not forget about Sunday dinners which the girl committed to attending on a bi-weekly basis. Fay nodded several times before reassuring her that they'll not be losing touch, and yes, she'll definitely say something if things go south with the Wayne brat', and yes, she'll get Alfred to call her himself to confirm she was safe. 

"Can I give you a hug?" 

Fay nodded and allowed the woman to wrap her arms around her, but she did use the box as a pretence not to return it in full. It wasn't Dana's fault, of course, that her motherly concern was close to triggering an emotional storm. Fay didn't want to end up crying and alarming Dana. When she walked back to the dark car, Alfred was already waiting for her outside of the car, holding an umbrella over his head. It hadn't stopped drizzling the entire morning, and the dark clouds approaching Gotham from north indicated the twenty-four-hour storm forecast was bound to become a reality sooner than expected. 

Fay didn't bother covering herself as she bid goodbye to Dana, then crossed the street. After she placed her belongings in the boot of the car, she followed Bag inside the car, one hand brushing her damp hair out of her face and the other pulling out her phone to text Damian that she's on her way. 

Wherever that was. 

He had insisted on keeping the location of the new place secret. 

If Fay didn't know better, she would have thought he was trying to surprise her. 

. 

Fay had fallen asleep a few minutes into the car ride. Her stamina levels were still embarrassingly low, despite the progress. The number of hours she's sleeping has reduced, and intermittent short naps have replaced them. When she woke up from such a slumber, Fay realized that Alfred had gone back to driving over the Robert Kane Memorial Bridge. They were, in fact, just coming off the six-mile-long construction, and Fay thought they might be heading back to the Manor, _is that why he didn't want to say anything?_ but then she remembered Damian told her the property where they'll be staying is a new build. 

The car made a few turns before keeping a straight line for several minutes, leaving Gotham River and the city island on her left-hand-side and Gotham County's woods to her right. They were driving parallel to the Wayne Property, she realized and approximately twenty minutes after they left the bridge, the car pulled down an unpaved road that snaked its way through a grove. It couldn't have been longer than a couple of miles before they arrived in a clearing where a large brick warehouse painted in a limestone grey towered over them. 

The path leading to the warehouse was simple, made of gravel and dirt, and the building's brick façade looked unassuming, despite its size. The smaller, flat-top unit attached to the building's left-hand side served as a garage, judging by the slatted door painted in the same colour as the rest of the building. Fay watched from the backseat as Alfred raised a remote and pressed a button on it. The door started rolling around itself and the butler pulled the car inside the illuminated space, which could have easily fit at least two other vehicles. 

Damian was nowhere to be seen, but Alfred told her she's free to explore and that he'll take care of her bags. Fay didn't need to be told twice. She stepped out of the garage and looked around curiously, whereas Bagheera immediately started canvassing the area, taking in the new scents, and inspecting the layout.

In the distance, at least several miles from where they were, she could see the top of some mid-rise buildings. She wasn't sure what it was called, but she knew there was a small town on that side of Gotham. It was a mostly affluent one, characterized by gated communities and high-end shops, but some parts were inhabited by the middle-class Gothamites. At least, that's what Robby had told her months earlier when he had given her the map of Gotham she still used to that day. Fay had never been to that side of town or on that side of Robert Kane Bridge because there was never any reason, so she wasn't familiar with it. 

Alfred led her inside the house through a door in the garage and gave her a house tour. 

And what a house it was. Objectively, the property could not compare to other places she's visited or been in. For that matter, neither did the penthouse or the Wayne manor. But that didn't mean Fay couldn't appreciate a great combination of style, practicality, and luxury when she saw it. It wasn't as if the architectural designs of that world were lacking, either. The cavernous space and the towering ceilings did remind her of the Maysoon architecture, which tended to favour open spaces. 

They came through the door straight into the kitchen area, which was as spacious and minimalist as the one she'd seen at the Wayne tower. It also looked like it was built to fit the needs of an entire family. As they passed it by into the dining space built in the same open space, Fay admired the sleek high-gloss of the dark marble counters and their pleasantly aesthetic combination with rustic elements such as the hardwood – heated – floors and splotches of browns and beiges. The granite kitchen island still had its protective packaging on, and she watched as Alfred tutted at the glossy plastic, muttering something about how everything should have been unpacked already. She followed him into the dining area built in the same open space as the kitchen. She admired the overall environment with its exposed brick, deep ceilings, and double-height windows offering her a clear picture of the gravelled path and the grove. 

Halfway through the warehouse-turned-house, Alfred stopped in front of the double-door entrance and showed her the digital screen to their left. She could operate the security system from there but there were also cameras outside, around the property, whose footage could be looked at from the screen. Theoretically, there shouldn't be a need for her to worry about what the cameras might capture but better to be prepared. Alfred told her that Damian programmed and installed the security system, so he'd be the one to tell her in more depth. 

Talking about the devil. Where was he? He gave her the impression that he'd be there too. 

To her left, there was an L-shaped staircase with a wide square landing in the bed which led to the second floor which was split into two parts, with a mezzanine on each side offering a view of the ground floor. Alfred told her there was a storage room under the staircase and behind it, two more doors. One that led to a bathroom and the other to the laundry room. Leading her to the other side of the house, she found the seating area, as spacious as the kitchen and dining area together. Her favourite element inside so far was, of course, the presence of bookshelves that lined the walls around her and second, was perhaps the large TV screen. Fay had never owned one, but she had watched it several times at Dana's house and then at the Wayne Manor. It was very much addicting. 

But the TV quickly moved to the third spot when she saw the double glass doors at the end of the room and past that, the enclosed glass and wooden terrace. That couldn't have been part of the original architecture which was otherwise made of brick and steel, just as the furniture, appliances, and the floor looked as though they've been retrofitted into the industrial space. The terrace had the same width as the warehouse and stretched before her for at least a couple of hundred feet. There was no sunshine to filter through the glass roof but either way, Fay still liked how that space gave the chance to watch the sky freely without concern for the weather elements. Not that she particularly was, but it would certainly make a good reading spot. 

For the better part, the space was empty, except for a table with bench-like seats in the middle and a few flower pots. An exit led to a small, clear area that could have been a garden had it not been for the frost carpeting the ground. The trees looked barren, like skeletons, and the floor is covered in mulch and leaves that hadn't yet been absorbed back into nature or swept away by the biting, harsh winds. She could hear nature clearer in there, as the space wasn't quite as soundproof as the rest of the house. It was also cooler. Fay watched the churlish clouds above their heads as they started coughing out gouts of water, turning the drizzle into a torrent. The sounds of water hitting against the glass felt soothing, and her flux coiled ever so slightly inside of her. 

Fay followed Alfred upstairs after that, whereas Bagheera stayed behind to continue his inspection of the house. On each side of the stairs, she had a view of not only the house, but she could also see a part of the bridge and Gotham City in the distance. They weren't that far from the island, but the quietness of that isolated property made her feel as if she was more than just ten or fifteen miles tops away from it. There was a bedroom on each wing of the house, each with its own bathroom. 

That made Fay frown dubiously at Alfred. " _Two_ …. bedrooms?" 

Alfred's expression was unreadable, which made her anxiety flutter harder in her chest. 

_Oh, sweet Maysoon, please don't let this be what I think it is_

"Obviously." A male voice piped up. Fay froze. _Oh no._

"Master Damian," Alfred called from beside her, turning around. He was just showing her the bedroom on the left-hand side of the house. "How good of you to finally join us." Fay would have been amused at the dry, sarcastic tone; had she not been focused on getting her heart to stop feeling as if it would beat its way out of her chest. Slowly, she turned around to look on the other side of the stairs where sure enough, the green-eyed devil was standing. The door to the bedroom behind him was ajar, and he was dressed casually in a red t-shirt and a pair of joggers. No shoes, just socks. 

The sudden urge to ask Bagheera to attack him was strong. 

"I---no---what----wait a second." Fay knew she sounded like an idiot but who could blame her. "You—you are going to live here?" _With me. In this house. WITH ME?!_

Damian was a warrior. His resilience in battle had been genuinely admirable. He could also be kind and thoughtful. 

But he was absolute, not the type of person she wanted to share a space with on a long-term basis. 

"No." He said, crossing his arms over his chest. "However, I have used this property as a safe house in the past." 

Fay stared. Okay. The 'no' part was useful. Right? Not that he had a track record for always being honest. Neither did she, but that was not the point. 

"But—but…you--- that's --- _what_?" Her brain was really struggling. 

Much to her horror, Alfred excused himself, saying he'll bring her baggage in and left them alone. 

Damian rolled his eyes at her as he came round the mezzanine to stand next to her. "Calm down before you give yourself a heart attack." 

Right, right. He had a stupidly fair hearing. 

Fay took a few breaths, not bothering to hide the panic she felt because, well, she knew there'd be changes, but she didn't think it would be quite at that level. The house was no longer just a shelter. It was built to look and feel like a home, which was dangerous because Fay did not want to get attached to it in such a manner. A small but loud part of her said the new accommodations were but a gilded cage that he had access and control over. 

"I think---I need---to—to—sit—" She felt woozy. Not as nauseous as she did weeks earlier, but there was an uncomfortable sensation in her stomach. 

Fay leaned her back against the glass balustrade and sunk down, crossing her legs. Damian crouched in front of her and surprisingly guided her in a breathing exercise, the same one he did before. Hold her breath for several seconds, then release it. A few minutes later, she was breathing normally and felt better, despite the throbbing at the back of her head. 

"I will not use this as a safe house." 

She blinked. "W-what?" 

There was a dark expression on his face, the line of his eyebrows set low, and his jaw clenched. 

"If you are so terrorized by my presence that it induces a panic attack, then you have nothing to worry about." He said tightly, and she realized he was gritting his teeth. He was angry. Her reaction had been cruel, hasn't it? Uncalled for, even. He had set up those incredible accommodations for her, and regardless of the implications of him having free access over it, she should not have reacted in such a manner. Not after they risked their lives for each other, not after the past several days in which he had upheld his vow to not force answers. They may not be friends, and their alliance may be temporary, but his – and everyone's else- treatment of her has been thoughtful, respectful. He didn't have to bring her there or offer all those amenities. Or disclose another secret to her, such as the location of one of the safehouses. 

Fay was afraid of him to an extent, but very little of that fear had to do with him personally. She was fearful of what Robin could do to her and Bag, how he could endanger their freedom and her world. But the reasons why she feared the boy beneath the mask were deeply rooted in causes that had nothing with him. Despite his abrasive, arrogant nature, Damian had never hurt her. Verbally, he may have been harsh at times or struck a few nerves, but Fay had known far worse cruelty than that. Even if she wanted, she wasn't sure how she could explain to him why she always felt the need to question people's motivations. Why she paradoxically believed in people being good but also feared their potential for being wrong. 

She had to try, though. Otherwise, she'll end up treating him as severely as others did her. And for all his faults or the risks he posed, Fay did not want that. Fay found herself grabbing his wrist when she saw him shift away as if to get up. Or she would have, but he instinctively grabbed her hand before she could even touch him. The grip wasn't painful, but it was tight. He didn't let go and met her gaze questioningly. 

"It's not you." Fay managed, heat rising to her cheeks at her own silly gesture. "I mean, some parts it is." He stayed silent, watching, and she continued. She couldn't very well stop now and might as well just get it out of the way before she lost the courage (if it could be called that). "I…do believe you're a good person, just like Dana or Mrs. Wilmot. I _do_ . But---sometimes, it's hard, I guess. I don't really know how to explain it, but---" _I have a way of making people dislike me._ "--- it's difficult not to think about the worst. I don't want to, but---" _I was wrong before._ "—it just happens. There are many reasons, and um, I am not sure if I understand all of them." 

"You're not wrong to fear me. I _can_ hurt you." He said simply. "So, if your instincts tell you that I am dangerous, you should listen to them." 

It was strange. But when she considered the pain he could cause her, it was always more in emotional terms than physical ones. Fay knew he was perfectly capable of both, and she was no stranger to either. But it was her heart that she feared breaking further, primarily. 

"I vowed, however, that you will suffer no harm." He remarked a moment later, a bit irritable, likely because he had to repeat himself when he didn’t like doing so. 

She understood the message he was sending. That he could easily hurt her, but he chose not to. Fay already knew that, but that did not mean much to her, as ruthless as that sounded. "I prefer actions over words myself," She looked at him in surprise. "So, time will tell then." Yes, time would. Sometimes that wasn't enough either, but she had to remind herself to be pragmatic (which she wasn’t doing a very good job at that moment).

She nodded. 

He rose to his feet, pulling her up after him without much warning, making her sway slightly. He let her go once she was stable on her feet. 

"Is the rest of the accommodation…to your liking?" 

Fay smiled slightly. "It's…. really great." She glanced towards the window. "I like that it's in the forest. Gotham doesn't have many green places." 

"The property is owned by a subsidiary of Wayne Industries, and it includes seven hundred acres that are fenced in, so you don't need to worry about civilians coming through. The security system will also capture interlopers if they go over the boundary of the property." He paused, and only continued when she turned back towards him, meeting his gaze. "It's yours to explore as you wish." 

Her heart soared, a warm feeling settling in her chest. "…really?" Oh. Having all that natural space to themselves was the closest they'd gotten to the freedom they had in the jungles of Maysoon. 

Wait. 

Is that why…?

"Gotham is one of the most dangerous cities on this side of the world, and while you've…. adapted, I will give you that, you also have a penchant for getting in situations where you’re over in your head. It is more practical for you to live here---this property doesn't officially exist, and it offers a private environment." He looked away, to the windows. "You mentioned that the noises and urban landscape are triggers, so you won't need to worry about them here. Most times, anyway.’’

Fay smiled. Gilded cage or not, he had gone ahead and taken into consideration observations she confided in weeks earlier. She knew he had an incredible memory but he didn’t have to make adjustments based on a brief discussion they had. 

"Thank you." 

"Hn." He turned away from her, heading towards the stairs. Cursing her weak heart, she stopped him. 

"There's ---a reason." He looked at her over, eyebrow raised. "I mean, that I can…talk about." Not easily, but it was best to get it out then and there. It was naive to think he wouldn't be coming around even if he didn’t use that place as a safe house. After all, he’ll want more answers from her. 

"I—I, um, I have nightmares." 

"I already knew that." 

"…no. I mean—terrible ones. I think they're called---" 

"Night terrors." 

She nodded and looked down at her wrists as she fidgeted with the sleeves of her jumper. "…Bag usually helps. But sometimes---that doesn't work." She hoped he understood what she was trying to say, because she found it difficult to find her words. Talking about her nightmares made her feel vulnerable and humiliated.

"You're afraid I will hear you." 

Fay avoided his gaze and didn't say anything. Silence could be an answer too. 

"I don't care." At that, however, she tilted her head up but didn't quite meet his eyes, instead of stopping to look at the small symbol on his shirt. She didn't recognize the logo, but it was a good point to focus on. "Whatever you think I will hear, it won't be anything I haven't heard.’’ _What is that supposed to mean?_ “And if I do happen to be here when it happens, I will not interfere if that's what you're worried about." 

She nodded. There was a slight sense of relief, although she still baulked at the idea of him hearing her when she was in the throes of a night terror. Or worse, what if she lost control of her flux in that moment? Granted, it had only happened several times when she was in Maysoon but just once would be enough to show Damian just how volatile she could be. 

"Come. I will explain how the security system works." He said.

Fay followed him, her mind starting to process all the changes taking place. 

She was never going back to the small attic, with its inflatable mattress and creaky windows and dusty corners. Every morning she won't climb down to the soup kitchen to clean it and help Dana, nor she will be sneaking in and out of the Gotham Academy to take a bath and read books. 

She wouldn't say she was sad about all those things, but she did feel as if…. she is a different person. 

Better, in many ways. 

Time will tell. 

. 

Damian had specific ground rules that she had to abide by, and as uneasy as she had been about them, Fay had to admit they were reasonable. For Damian, anyway. 

The phone must always be on her. It will be tracked. She must wear a watch too, both for timekeeping and as a contingency plan if she loses the phone. That also will be tracked. 

Report to him if she does go into the city: when, and approximate location. Damian doesn't care what she's up to or where she's going as long as it's not particularly dangerous areas, like East End Gotham. He also preferred if she used the private car hire, he offered to travel around, but Fay had refused, not liking the idea of being chaperoned everywhere she went. Ultimately, she had to compromise by agreeing that she and Bag would only travel by foot if her health allowed it. The weather was permitting, and if she regularly communicated about her whereabouts. Fay didn't see the point of that last request, seeing as he could track her anyway, but he only asked for short updates, so she took the path of least resistance. 

She must not absolutely engage in dangerous situations or investigate potentially dangerous leads. If it cannot be avoided, then she must contact him immediately. 

She should not be in Gotham after ten in the evening. Ideally, she should be back at the warehouse before sundown. Fay should let him know if that's not the case. However, there will be exceptions: if she is staying with Dana or with him or Alfred. That also implied that they'd be _hanging out_ together, and Fay wasn't sure how she felt about it. Not as negatively as she did once, that's for sure. 

If anyone asks for her name, it's still Fay Kipling. If anyone tries to contact her guardian, she should offer the number he'll give her. The call will come through a secure line, and the caller will be none the wiser that who they're talking with is not, in fact, her guardian. The caller's identity will be identified relatively easily from that point, and he'll also be able to track the call if there's a need for it. 

Fay may go back to visit the museum, but she should keep a low profile. She will no longer be volunteering, and if anyone inquires about her absence, she can go ahead and say that she has been unwell or that she's been travelling. 

She should not be breaking into Gotham Academy anymore. If there are books or resources she wants, he will provide them. At that, Fay turned beet red. "You---you knew about that?!" Damian threw her the look he always did when she asked what he considered stupid questions. 

It _was_ a stupid question. She should have known better. Fayay pouted slightly. She considered apologizing about it, but it felt redundant at that point. "I didn't steal anything." She mumbled defensively. "I was just curious. And---I like books." She said weakly. 

"Yes, we've established you're quite the deviant character." 

“I am---I am not deviant!’’ She protested. 

_Although, if he knew about my family…._

"I…adapted." She defended, using his own earlier words. 

Damian raised a brow at her, giving her a slightly mocking look. 

"I clearly should have not been generous in using that term." 

Was he trying to rile her up? 

He was, wasn't he? 

"I only stole what I needed," Fay grumbled.

And he succeeded. 

"Yet you kept refusing my offer. You must enjoy engaging in illicit behaviour." 

Fay got the sense he was still sore over it. His pride knew no bounds, really. 

"That was…different. Dana was paying me so—so I would have been fine. I only…stole a few times on our way here." 

He clicked his teeth. "And how, pray do tell, did you plan on getting to Europe with the meagre pay Mercher was offering?" 

Fay shrugged. "I don't know." Her lips twitched upwards. "I would have _adapted_." 

"Tch. How clever. It is truly a wonder how you survived so far." 

She didn't take as much offence to it as she would have weeks earlier. 

Fay just smiled harder. 

(He always looked away when she did)

. 

.

.

 _12_ _th_ _of November_

Fay did give him most of the precious stones that she had kept secret for months. The few ones that could be found only in her world were still tucked away in a leather pouch along with other items she rarely dared to look at. Damian told her that selling all jewels shouldn't be a challenge, but it had to be done gradually and likely via proxies because it would attract attention. So, instead, he offered her the equivalent in cash from Wayne fortune as it might be weeks or months before the jewels were all sold. She did tell him that she did not want to make money off the diamonds, but he still gave her the money for them too, reasoning that he wasn't going to sell those, but instead, they'll be put in a safe box. 

Fay knew enough about precious stones from her teachings and research to know that Damian had given her a fair sum for them. Perhaps, a bit too much. Sure, most of it was divided into a few bank accounts that were in Fay Kipling's name who didn't really exist, but still. Fay planned on cashing a sizable amount because she preferred cash over the online transactions, but all in all, it had been the right arrangement. 

Three months earlier, she agonized over how they'd be paying for the cruise ship or making ends meet in Europe. 

Now, she has a quarter-million dollars in her account. 

That, her family would have been proud of. 

_._

_._

.

 _14_ _th_ _of November_

It took her a couple of days to become accustomed to the new environment. The cons were centred primarily around the presence of cameras and the fact that Damian had essentially placed them in a box – a fancy once – that he monitored far more ease than he could have if she had stayed in the attic. He also tended to drop in unannounced _at all hours._ But he held his end of the bargain – he never came into her wing, and if she was in her bedroom, he didn't request her presence or attention. In fact, she could hardly tell he was there at all. 

Bagheera could, however, and he'd taken to sleep outside her bedroom door. There was a tentative alliance between boy and beast, but her paladin didn't necessarily like him. Not entirely. She'd caught Damian throw a bag to her paladin a day earlier, and Bagheera was comfortable in projecting his emotions more often with the boy around. 

The pros of staying there outnumbered the cons. 

First, she had a bathroom just for herself. Ever since she's met Damian, she has had easier access to showers and baths without needing to sneak into Gotham Academy or the gym, but she hadn't given up on them as a choice entirely. The first evening they were there, Fay spent over an hour in the bathtub until the bubbles that threatened to spill over the rim had disappeared almost entirely, and the water had gone lukewarm. 

Second, having all the space – mostly –had made Bagheera and the strays infinitely happy. Damian had the animals collected from Dana and delivered there the day after she moved in. She found the ferret in a large playpen built near the lounge area, and dogs and cats were positioned nearby. There were toys too and bowls with water and food. Fay would have assumed it was Alfred's doing had she not found the boy sitting on the floor with the cat in his lap and playing with the dog. By the end of the day, they all had names. Seeing as the cat preferred the boy, Fay allowed him to name her. Nada. She liked it. They debated and argued over the names, but ultimately the dog was called 'Pip' and the ferret 'Hector'. 

Third, the forest was, well, hers to explore. Nobody else lived within over a two-mile radius. Fay started marking the trees to see how far she could make it each day, testing her energy levels slightly further each day. It was a challenge she was happy to take on in that natural setting, even with the cold temperature and constant rain. Fay felt as if a missing piece of her was being returned. The one that thrived when she related to nature and its natural energies. Even her flux felt stronger after a couple of days. Not enough to give her courage to summon it, at least not without undoing her recovery, but she felt…. better. Lighter. 

Fourth, she now had amenities that she hadn't paid much attention to before because they'd never been permanent, or she simply didn't have the luxury of putting them down on her list of priorities. Watching TV was addicting, especially when there was one in her bedroom as well. Having a fridge and freezer large enough to fit the needs of an entire family made shopping easier. She didn't have to worry about money or storage. Having a kitchen all to herself meant she could cook---she was average at best, but it was a good distraction, and she was curious about trying new foods that hadn't been an option before. 

Damian was still a tyrant about what she ate, but if she respected the intake percentages of protein, carbohydrates and sugar, he set for her, she wasn't being terrorized about it. Fay didn't protest much because she recognized the benefits of the nutritional plans. She was gaining weight, rapidly so and each day, she felt stronger psychically. 

Fifth, the new accommodations offered coping mechanisms when she was feeling anxious. She could walk around, clean, or cook, or she'd go for a run around the property. 

Sixth, she wasn't sure whether it was one factor that played into it, but she felt---energetic. Playful, even. Not quite in the manner of the olden days but close. In the last several months, Bagheera had been the one to instigate games, but Fay found herself turning the tables on that. Chasing each other through the grove of trees made her feel as if they were back home, back to those times when there were hardly any other worries but to seek an adventure more extraordinary than the last. 

Seventh, the nightmares didn't go away either. Without the bracelets, her flux was also free to react in line with her emotions. It felt good, in a way, because there was no burning sensation in her wrists anymore, and her marks didn't ache as they used to. Cold showers and running outside helped. Fay remained uneasy at the idea of Damian hearing her. 

Eight, it felt nice being financially independent. Fay discovered the addiction to online shopping early on. No wonder Mack always teased Dana about ordering it all the time. 

The ninth pro argument was a tricky one. She and Damian were engaging in lengthy discussions again. It was irregularly so because she had a strange sleeping pattern and there was no say when he'd show up. When they did, however, their discussions were rarely under a couple of hours. He was curious about her world, and she was about his, so the possibilities of topics felt…. endless. 

It was still a give and take sort of situation. He answered her questions, but she had to answer his, too. Damian made good on his promise – if she was uncomfortable or had difficulty talking about a particular subject, he didn't push. Not always, anyway. If he didn't take the cue that it was an off-limit subject, she'd tell him verbally. He never pushed once she did that, even if sometimes he was annoyed or impatient. 

Fay was learning about that world through the lenses of someone who had been thoroughly educated in a wide range of fields. In that sense, they were similar, although unlike her, he indeed was a prodigy. It felt…good. Talking to someone else like that. It did before, too, but not having to pretend about being of that world was a relief. Fay could freely admit if she didn't understand something, no matter how mundane, and she didn't have to worry about coming across as strange about it. 

It was an illusion too. Damian's desire to be there, talking to her. They were pushed together by circumstance. She was something new, foreign. Something to dissect and learn about: Damian wasn't interested in Fay of Maysoon and her story and scars and dreams. Or in being her friend. She was an ally of sorts, an interloper of that world that he chose to protect and make his responsibility until…. until what? She wasn't sure. They hadn't discussed her long-term stay in that world or what would happen once they found more about Daphne Barlow. 

All she knew is the thought of seeing him as a friend, has taken root in her heart, and she couldn't do anything about it. 

But he would never know that. How foolishly content she felt when they'd spend hours drinking hot chocolate and discuss everything and in-between. How she had secretly made a list of questions, she wanted to ask because it helped her gather the courage to ask them. How she felt she mattered and how her knowledge and experiences no longer felt insufficient. He didn't know about who or what she indeed was, and she'd never tell him, so for a little while longer, she will go along with the illusion. 

For the time being, she put their discussions down like a pro. 

Damian said time will tell whether she can trust him – but that didn't mean she won't be broken-hearted by the end of it. 

Sooner or later, the illusion would crumble, after all. 

_._

_._

_._

_16_ _th_ _of November_

It was a Bad Day. 

Fay laid in bed throughout the day, listening to the shrieks and moans of the trees and the hard thrum of rain against the windows, dipping in and out of a vicious line of thoughts that made her anxiety levels rise to uncomfortable levels. Psychically, she did not feel quite as beaten down as before—days of eating regular, full meals have made her more resistant. She couldn't eat that day, but the headache and nausea weren't overall bearable. Her grief and fears felt just as powerful as usual, though. Bagheera stayed by her side, projecting his calmness and affection onto her, more effective than any painkillers in taking away the edge of her suffering. But she did not feel okay. Not at all. 

Damian didn't bother her. Bagheera allowed him to step in around three in the afternoon, but he didn't stay. He also didn't say anything. Fay couldn't see his expression, hiding under the covers the moment she heard the door open. Then she started crying for no reason and all reasons. 

She's always been a cry baby. Sensitive. Bad Days just had a way of bringing that up worse than usual. 

Fay fell asleep at one point, lulled by Bag's presence, and when she woke up a couple of hours later, she found something on her nightstand that hadn't been there before. 

It was a book. 

Robinson Crusoe by Daniel Defoe. It sounded vaguely familiar. Perhaps it had been amongst the many books that her parents had kept of that world. Fay hadn't read all of them, as far as she knew. Or perhaps she did but could not remember. After all, her memory had been affected by that night. 

So, she read it. For hours – it wasn't a particularly thick book, just shy of three hundred pages. But she took her time, even rereading specific passages. The story itself was not something she hasn't heard before; a man having to contend with loneliness, his will versus nature. Her world was full of such stories, but she was captivated by the book all the same. 

Robinson, a young, brash man, abandons his life full of comforts because he seeks adventures and treasures, bringing him down a wild path of both successes and failures. He experiences hope and despair and loses his freedom only to regain it after. All that could have been avoided had he just settled for the predetermined path set by his family, a safer route. A predictable one. Yet he desired adventure, excitement. There's no way to say if his life would have been as dull as he made it out to be, but he took risks, not waiting to find out – and found himself on an island, forced to survive and rely on his own wit to make it through. 

He was resilient, but that did not mean he did not have moments in which he faced hopelessness. He improvises, adapts, becomes resourceful. Even though he had already met other setbacks before arriving on that island – nearly dying, being enslaved -, he still found a will to survive. He moved forward, even if he was motivated by survival. He was even…optimistic - " _look more upon the bright side of my condition, and less upon the dark side, and to consider what I enjoy, rather than what I wanted"_ , but it did not mean he was not frightened or lonely. All those emotions existed simultaneously for twenty-eight long years. Crusoe seemed to have considered his castaway experience as a divine punishment for not having listened to his family, and when he tried to right his wrongs for leaving, he found that the home he left behind was already gone. 

She read it twice, eyes devouring the words even if it made her head hurt more. 

It made her cry, too, just not for the reasons she had been crying up until then. She cried because she identified herself with the character in many ways. She hadn't left home seeking adventure; the idea to escape had percolated her mind for weeks and she hadn’t initially considered that world at all. There were plenty of places she could have gone, even if her family would have tracked her down eventually. One of the reasons why that world appealed to her is because it wasn’t hers. However, much like Robinson Crusoe, she too had wanted to escape a path she felt was already determined for her. 

She lacked the strength and means to change her situation, so she felt her only choice was to abandon it altogether. Fay – and Bag – have too experienced perils. Their successes could be found in Dana’s generosity, and the welcoming environment of the soup kitchen. It could also be found in Damian in many ways, even if she still considered revealing her secrets to him a failure. 

That whole world was her island. Wild, foreign, unpredictable. Dangers lurking in the shadows, isolated from most things she was familiar with, forced to make do with resources at hand and applying them practically. She had help compared to Crusoe, though – she had met people willing to guide her even when she was reluctant to allow them. She didn't think her time there was a punishment -- not entirely, not anymore. 

Because Fay was different than she had been when she first arrived in that world. For better or for worse, she was different. 

By the time she was done reading, it was evening. 

. 

Bagheera dropped the book at his feet. His emotions were hidden, but the creature seemed pleased enough. The pale blue eyes moved from his face towards the kitchen. 

"I am not cooking." Damian scoffed. The beast growled softly at him, irritated. When the boy refused to budge, Bagheera walked away with a huff and opened the fridge doors himself before proceeding to noisily take out items. The paladin considered hunting something in words, but it would still require cooking. Damian grabbed the book and noticed the first page of the book had a folded corner. 

' _Thank you.'_

He sighed and got up, approaching the furry beast. 

"Are you trying to bring her food or give her food poisoning?" He snorted, when he saw the mess on the floor. 

Bagheera sneered at him. 

Then his eyes fell onto a packaged item tucked on one of the kitchen shelves' lower shelves. 

It wouldn't hurt teaching the boy a lesson. 

.

Half an hour later, Fay found herself with two sandwiches and a bowl of fruit being served by her paladin. 

For some reason, he was also covered in flour. 


	19. Of reflections, laughter, and hidden truths

_"Pleasure is very seldom found where it is sought;_   
_our brightest blazes of gladness are commonly kindled by unexpected sparks."_

\- Samuel Johnson

.

.

.

_18 th of November_

It was slightly past dawn by the time Damian had finished patrol and travelled back to the warehouse. That day his father had remarked that he has seen Fay often since she left the Wayne Manor. It sounded accusatory. As if he was doing something, he wasn't meant to. Damian did not justify himself, but he was annoyed that his father treated it as if it was an issue. He should be free to do as he pleases, which is precisely what he told his father. In retrospect, he should have known it would start an argument.

Did his father genuinely trust him with Fay? Because it didn't sound that way. Damian wasn't doing anything that his father wouldn't have. Bruce would have never imprisoned, coerced, or tortured Fay for information, and he had agreed with Damian that it's best if she is isolated from Gotham's chaos in a safer place. Otherworldly or not, she is not a threat, nor there is any indication she might be one. That, too, they agreed on. Her killing of those chimeras has crossed some boundaries, but those beasts were hardly sentient by the time they were let out loose on the compound. Fay had shown both remorse and disgust at killing the chimaeras, even if she was not affected by it as most children would have.

Her reaction made sense now that he knew about her upbringing. Fay was raised in a warrior culture, so death and killing are not concepts she would baulk quickly at; that she saw as a taboo. Her parents' loss must have consolidated that perception, which explained her views on the world as a dark, cruel place. Still, Fay believes in redemption and second chances, too.

Damian wanted to explore her knowledge and experiences more. Yet, she always clammed up when it came up to personal questions, particularly around the topic of her family and why she does not consider herself a warrior.

Halloween night has brought to light several hidden aspects about her.

Despite being crippled by panic attacks day to day, Fay did not lose her composure when she had to cut in him. She had been afraid---her hands were shaking, and her heart rate was through the roof, but she had not hesitated when the moment came to operate on him. Fay was no surgeon, but she had enough medical knowledge to identify the extent of damage of the senwi to his vascular system. Fay has taken a risk in removing the parasite, but her quick thinking had saved his life. There was no guarantee that if they escaped that place at that moment, he would have gotten medical attention on time. She mentioned that any more movement on his end could have caused the sac of toxins to rupture, so moving him had not been an option.

Fay had the option of running away and leaving him there, using Bagheera to get to safety faster than the other children. She could have kept her identity a secret. If Damian had died in that field, the others would have tracked her down given her involvement in the case, but they wouldn't have necessarily suspected she was from another world. She wouldn't have had to expose herself the way she did by staying behind to help him. That meant she did not value her secrets more than she did the lives of others.

Fay also changed her mind later that evening. Bagheera did, too, by coming back after him, but her return had been unexpected. Damian noted how surprised the beast's surprise when she re-appeared at the compound. She was in the throes of a panic attack --he had seen the way Fay stared at the battlefield, terrorized but not quite seeing. She was reminiscing something, and she had been so enraptured by her memories that she didn't even seem to notice when he pushed her out of the way. 

Damian had wondered for several days what caused the shift in her behaviour. Between her laying on the ground, defenceless, fallen prey to her own fears and the moment she had stood up and wreaked havoc in her wake. It was as if a new person had taken her place: the determination, the courage, and destructiveness of her attacks. Damian did not offer others admiration lightly, but she had earned it at that moment, even if she wasn't aware of it. For the indomitable will, at least. She did not fight like an assassin, stealthy and the precision of a surgeon. No. There had been something decidedly…wild about her.

Effective enough.

Fay was weak emotionally, and her body fragile, but she had gotten up that night – again and again, and again. He knows she had been in significant pain. He had seen the way she coughed blood, the way her features had contorted whenever she fell down, how she'd started shaking.

Then he realized what it was that drove her to keep rising to her feet.

_Anger._

He had recognized it but hadn't put a name to it. Not immediately. It hadn't seemed relevant until he reflected on it later because anger was not uncommon in the heat of a battle. He'd know better than anyone. That it had been Fay who expressed it so intensely is what made it peculiar. She had shown signs of irritation or exasperation before, just as she has proven capable of defiance and stubbornness.

However, what he saw that night wasn't a fleeting moment of annoyance, a temporary flare of her temper. It was the type of scorching rage that runs too deep for it to be new. The kind of anger that must have been festering underneath the anxiety and fears and decided to manifest itself stronger than either of those. Fay was an angry person. He wondered if she was even aware of it. Or if perhaps she went to great lengths to keep it hidden.

After all, that type of fury could be…powerful. It had been for her, fuelling Fay into braving a situation with the verve of a soldier. Fay did not cry or flinch when the beast tore her shoulder; she gazed _back_ at chimera, challenging it. They would have had to get through her if they wanted to get to him. Her attitude could have perceived as either the bravery of a warrior or the carelessness of a person who doesn't care if they live or die (maybe he'll credit her both). When he asked her to stop fighting and run, she had shown him anger too. He didn't think it was because of him, though.

Fay had been fighting different enemies on that battlefield, and not all of them were psychically there. She had shown less fear in dealing with the chimeras than when she experienced a panic attack, which meant that the monsters in her head – either real or fictional – are far more frightening than what she faced at the compound. All that anger that she kept in, it must be, at least in part, related to the loss of her parents. Perhaps her family too, now that she's realized the damage the bracelets had done to her. The bracelets they asked her to wear, as she's confirmed it herself.

What else, though? It couldn't have been just that. The thieves she faced when recovering Wilmot's items had hurt her psychically too, but she had not reacted in that manner. What was it about that night that pushed the anger to surface like that?

Fay had not looked angry when she thanked him. It had vanished by the time she had decided to deal the final blow to the chimeras. She had looked at him with gratitude and…. _something_ else.

An emotion that he has rarely been on the receiving end of but that he was no stranger to. At least to some versions of it. Talia had shown that emotion, too, but hers has always been conditional. Damian had seen it clearly on his father's face in the first moments after he came back to life. Bruce's, too, could be conditional at times. Damian has had to earn it time and time again, and it wasn't always enough. Grayson's has stopped being conditional early on, but his took shape differently. A confidential space in which there was more acceptance than tolerance, patience as opposed to his mother or father's stance on 'my way or no way'. Pennyworths wasn't conditional either, but it was more subdued. It was not something he acknowledged openly, but that emotion was among the primary reasons why Pennyworth or Grayson were generally his first contact points.

Fay had shown him that emotion too. Openly, unfiltered. What a puzzling sight. Damian isn't sure why it was directed at him, what has he done to deserve it, but it was unmistakably directed at him. For days, he has told himself that it was the heat of the moment. That if she was thanking for something, it was the money he'd given her, the hospitality he'd shown. Fay may consider him a good person, but she was also afraid of him. She thought he was arrogant and demanding, as well. To express _that_ emotion that night was unexpected, illogical (as most things she did that night, for that matter).

Damian has been giving it more thought than he wanted, but every time he shut down those thoughts, deeming them irrelevant, they found a way of resurfacing whenever he interacted with her. He had not hallucinated seeing those emotions on her face, regardless of how out of it he may have been.

Temporarily deactivating the security system on the house, Damian slipped through the main entrance. Bagheera was already at the bottom of the stairs, the dark of his fur blending in with the shadows. Only his luminous pale-blue eyes were visible, narrowing at him. Damian ignored him (despite being equally impressed and annoyed that the beast always managed to sense him), and instead, he moved towards the kitchen, curious as to why Fay had left the lights on.

The scent of butter and cheese permeated the air. On the kitchen island, he found a plate with two grilled sandwiches. They were still warm.

A note was next to them.

' _For Damian. Even if they're not healthy.'_

A soft thump from the ceiling above his head told him that Fay was still awake.

She wouldn't have known he was going to be there that day. He hadn't shown up at the warehouse regularly, and he generally used the window in his bedroom to get inside. Damian liked taking advantage of the privacy and quietness that the place offered to be with his own thoughts or conduct research. Fay, to her credit, was discreet and never bothered him, nor did she ask questions. 

The grilled sandwiches were nowhere as good as they could have been. Maybe he'll get Pennyworth to teach her, seeing as she wanted to leave food out for him. 

Still, he took the plate and retreated to his room.

He has not figured out why yet, but undoubtedly Fay _cared._

About _him_.

The boy capable of hurting, the one she was afraid of. The one she risked her life for.

He hasn't decided how he felt about that. The warm feeling in his chest, although uncommon, was not unwelcome, however.

.

.

.

Fay had slept relatively more comfortable than the previous night, but she chose to stay in bed that morning after assuaging her hunger with grilled sandwiches (she had to thank Mack again for introducing her to that simple yet delicious dish). She left the door to her bedroom slightly ajar, as Bagheera liked moving back and forth throughout the night. Mostly if Damian was there. It was also for her own sake. Her paladin could open doors, but he was not particularly quiet about it.

Encouraged by the rainy weather outside, she spent the entire morning dozing off and on, watching TV. Around eleven, she found herself researching Daphne Barlow again. Damian had given her a brand-new laptop which he briefly showed her how to use. She figured out the rest, not that she used it often.

Damian had looked Daphne up in the first week she was at Manor after telling him how her research into the woman has led her to Hannah Walker and George Sanders. There was little more that he discovered on her that Fay didn't know already. Outside occasional lectures or conferences – of which she was very selective in attending-, Daphne was a recluse. She has a wide array of staff members at her service, thus removing the need for her to get involved publicly in most, if not all, aspects of her career.

Daphne does have a personal mobile, but she rarely uses it, which means she must use other means to communicate with her staff: postal or face to face. The latter is more likely, according to Damian, given the presence of an office in London. When Hannah Walker died, Daphne had stayed tight-lipped on it– journalists tried and failed to bait her into offering them a commentary beyond the standard response that she was shocked and saddened by the news. She arranged Hannah's funeral through an intermediary, but she didn't attend the event herself.

Damian's file also showed that Daphne owned several properties across Europe, and she frequently travelled between them. Her husband, a financial advisor, had died a few years earlier following a heart attack. They have two adopted children, now with families of their own. The son lives in England while the daughter lives in France.

From Damian's investigation and monitoring – Fay didn't even bother to ask what that entailed - nothing has come up to indicate she was anything but the psychologist, wife, and mother that she portrayed herself as. There is no evidence of a connection between her and Angela Russo, and if it hadn't been for Fay's suspicion that Daphne may be from her world, she wouldn't have been a suspect at all. Damian agreed that if Fay's hunch turned out to be accurate, then it could not all be just a grand coincidence. They needed more data (Fay had mentally added that phrase to his list of favourites).

Fay cannot approach her yet. If Daphne is working with someone else on having weapons and other goods transported from one world to another, they must remain discreet. Fay knew she was being used to an extent, but it was the rational choice for Damian to make. When she thought about reaching out to Daphne, she hadn't really considered the woman might be a villain, so she had no grounds on which to object against Damian's decision. 

In January, they'll be attending a scientific symposium, for which Daphne's assistant has already confirmed her attendance. Fay will have the opportunity to assess her in real life, and if possible, validate her assumption that Daphne is from her world. Damian didn't tell her what would happen beyond that, but Fay hoped their trip would not be purely observational. It was ironic how much time she's spent trying to find a way for them to travel to Europe, and now they were going to do precisely that. Except they did not have to worry about documentation or border crossing or roping Dana into it. 

The door to her bedroom opened, and she glanced up, thinking it might be Bagheera. She wasn't wrong.

Except he wasn't alone.

Damian was with him, a towel wrapped around his shoulders, using one of the ends to rub the excess water from his hair. He was dressed casually, a red t-shirt and a pair of joggers. Fay wondered just how many clothes he kept there because she'd seen him wear several different outfits whenever he came over.

Or why he was suddenly stepping into her room. He has never done that before.

A moment later, he lifted his free hand, drawing her attention to the large plastic bag he was carrying. The scent of food wafted over to her.

Fay looked at him confusedly.

"Pennyworth delivered it." He said simply before placing it on the edge of her bed. _Bagheera could have brought it up too._

Damian glanced around her room, assessing, just as he had done when he came into the attic. No wonder Nada liked him. He was a bit like a cat himself—just stepping wherever he pleased as if he owned the place (well, he did in that case).

The bed was situated halfway across the room, pushed against the wall, to the left of the entrance, with nightstands on each side. To her left, at the end of the room, she had double-height windows that offered her a great view of the grove and harbour. Gotham, too, was visible in the distance, and at night she could see all the lights, including the Bat-signal high up on the sky. There was a desk between her bed and the windows and the door leading to the bathroom.

On the other side of the room, straight across from her bed, the TV had been placed within a large and dark wooden unit that offered a wide range of storage she hasn't found a use for yet. The walk-in closet on that same side was only partially filled, but she planned shopping for more clothes soon. Near the windows, there was also a seating area built under the windowsill. It was one of her favourite spots. Her books, transported from the attic as promised, had been left in small towers near the reading spot but she was thinking of either moving them downstairs. Fay tended to be messy, so her embarrassment rose when she spotted the jackets and jumpers thrown haphazardly over the chair at the desk and the items scattered through the room – notes, napkins, journals, books, sweets, pencils, other clothes.

In her defence, she hadn't expected him to be there. 

So, _why_ was he there?

The boy lowered the towel from his head, leaving his hair into a spiky damp mess, as he glanced at her then at the laptop. She couldn't read his expression, but he seemed calm. "Barlow, again?" Fay shrugged. "I was curious, I guess." She eyed the bag, and setting the notepad aside, she leaned over to grab it. There were different insulated food containers inside – fresh waffles, peanut butter sandwiches, omelette, bowls of fruit salad—even fresh orange juice in glass bottles. Even by Alfred's standards, the quantity of food in that bag was too much for one person. The butler wouldn't have prepared double portions on Bagheera's account because he knew her paladin preferred fish or raw meat (which she now kept plenty of in the fridge).

Also, why he would go ahead and prepare her food suddenly? A day after her Bad Day.

Fay looked up at Damian curiously, but his expression betrayed nothing.

_It had to have been him._

It wasn't just her wretched hope making perceive things that weren't there. _Right?_

But when he turned to walk out, she couldn't help herself.

"Don't…. don't you want to eat as well?" She asked, feeling a rush of embarrassment. Maybe she should just get out of the bed, and they could both eat downstairs in the kitchen. He turned back to face her, assessing. A few moments later, he was sitting cross-legged next to her, the food containers spread out before them. The laptop and her notes were pushed to the side. Fay didn't ask about the grilled sandwiches, feeling silly she left them out in the first place. She was quietly grateful he didn’t bring up the topic either.

Knowing Bag's appetite and strange rivalry with the boy, her paladin had likely stolen them anyway.

"I don't understand what it is you find entertaining in this," Damian remarked, halfway between his omelette, looking at the TV across the room. Fay had left it on the cartoon channel, and currently, there was a new episode of the series centred around a cat trying to catch a mouse. It was rapidly becoming one of her favourites. She shrugged again. "I guess… they're just funny." She leaned over to her left to take out another sugar-powdered waffle.

"But it is a bit strange how popular this type of entertainment is here." Pip jumped on the bed and plopped himself in front of Fay with a begging look. Nada, who had already made herself comfortable near Damian's knee, gave him a derisive look. The girl smiled slightly at the dog and gave him a piece of bread with peanut butter on it. The apples that she found inside had already been claimed by Bagheera. 

"Does your world not have this type of telecommunication medium? Or cinematography?"

Fay pursued her lips, contemplating that. It was hard explaining it in English, as she did not know the equivalent of all terms. She doubted it would be possible to translate everything anyway. Fay did not know how advanced technology was in that world but based on what she’d seen so far, her world was years ahead. In some ways, at least. 

But she focused on answering that specific question alone.

"There is entertainment similar to this." _How should I explain it?_ "Oh! Wait. This world has something that we do too---um, what's it called? I've seen it at the museum." She instinctively looked at him for help. "Like photography but not really---"

"Holograms?"

Fay nodded, smiling slightly. "Yeah. Holo-holographic technology. I don't know…. how advanced it is here, but we use that for a lot of things. Entertainment, too. We do have---movies, as well. Or a form of them, and there is an industry based on it--- it's quite new, though. Not as big as it is here." She thought about the numerous posters on public transport and buildings and the obsession Robby had with certain movies. "I guess before the revolutions, people didn't have time to think about things like that."

"You're not familiar, then, with any of the cinematographic adaptions of the books you've read," Damian said. "Dickens, _Kipling_."

The girl looked away, frowning. "…I know about them. I mean, I had an idea of cinematography here even if I didn't know how----well, how _much_ of it there is. And I know there are movies and---" She glanced at the TV. "Animations that have been created based off on books. I didn't really have access until now, so I never watched them." She looked down at her lap, expression darkening slightly. "Plus, books are just as good. I can just imagine the characters and stories myself." Her mother was a great storyteller.

"You're afraid they won't match what you've envisioned."

Fay glanced at him, looking as if she would deny it but then thought against it. She just shrugged again. "Hn." He finished his omelette, then leaned over to pull the laptop closer between them. She hadn't locked it, leaving it on a zoomed picture of Daphne Barlow attending a charity ball, decades earlier, with Von Richter. Damian was interested in his death as well. He apparently died peacefully in his sleep. The medical records Damian hacked into did not indicate any underlying medical conditions. If anything, the man was in a tremendous psychical shape despite his age. In the years leading up to his death, his behaviour had changed radically, so Damian was not ready to rule him out as a suspect as well. He had been close with Daphne Barlow after all. Enough to warrant a public response from her, something she hasn't even offered her foster sister despite Hannah’s considerably more unfortunate demise.

"She was beautiful," Fay remarked softly. "She still is."

She was. Her features were striking. 

"Any ideas on which clans she might originate from?’’ Fay had told him about the 'mark of sullied' and the long history of some clans practising such ritual with its own members. Damian had assumed that was why Fay had run away when he heard. She has admitted to being different from her family, after all. It was only logical to think she might have been in danger of being marked herself. Fay had looked surprised when he asked her and had told him that hadn't been the case. Her family did not partake in that type of tradition, nor she had ever been threatened with it. She was telling the truth, but it wasn't the whole story.

Then again, the bracelets were a mark of their own, weren't they? Worse than a scar in many ways. A scar wouldn't have debilitated her the same way the seals on the bracelets did.

Fay shook her head. She did but hasn't had close contact with such clans. Plus, Daphne had left several decades earlier, and many things have changed since then. Maybe no one knew she was there in the first place. "Her white hair." It reminded her of someone else. "They're not that uncommon, but I am not sure she's from Maysoon. Not the capital, anyway. The Northern Tribes….maybe." She pursued her lips, then shook her head to herself. "No. Actually, as far as I know, they don't follow this tradition. I would need to have a closer look at the scar."

"Is it different for each person? Or clan? So, it's identifiable."

"It depends, yes. On the clan, and on the reason for the mark." She gave the photo a sad look. "If she lived in this world for such a long time, she must have received the mark when she was young." Well, it depended on her lifespan, really. But she'll leave that topic for later. Damian grunted and leaned back against the pillows, watching her from the corner of his eyes. "She lived here for over four decades." He remarked tentatively, waiting until she turned her head to look at him.

"She built a life on a false identity, but nonetheless, a life of her own choosing. Barlow has settled here permanently, studied, worked and became an accomplished psychologist. Even has a family." Talia had considered her to be his tutor. She didn't make the cut ultimately. If she had, she would have been dead by the time Fay arrived in that world and looked her up. Perhaps the girl would have never ended up researching her, setting in motion the long chain of events that had followed. Fay seemed to understand what he was getting at, judging by how her eyes widened ever so slightly. They were brown again. But that night at the compound, they had been a different shade. Like molten gold. Was that the effect of her using the flux?

"You can't tell me you haven't considered it," Damian said, pushing just a bit further. "Criminal or not, Barlow is still a prime example of how well someone from your world could adapt and settle in this one."

Fay turned her gaze away, looking pensively. "…I guess so. But I don't think I would want to be here permanently."

"Why not?"

"Because this is not where I belong."

"And you belong to Maysoon?" He would call bullshit if she said yes. Fay was attached to her homeland, but she wouldn’t have gone to a whole different world just to seek adventure like Crusoe. At the very least, her family was not a place she had wanted to be. They had pushed expectations on her that she had not been accustomed to and which she had not fulfilled. He deduced the second part, but she hadn't denied it when he asked her if the reason she didn't consider herself a warrior was tied in with her desire to escape.

"I belong to myself," Fay said with uncanny firmness. A stark contrast to how she faltered when she spoke next. "I----I just----I just don't know who I am. Or what I want, I guess."

Something heavy settled in his stomach, his heart rate spiking ever so slightly at those words.

He knew those words.

He thought them many times over. Admitted to them after he had killed Nobody. She glanced up at him, eyes wetter than before and expression haunted again. Her stutter was back. "I don't want---I don't want other people to-to decide who I am. I don't know how…how to do that, however. I thought it was enough. Before---be-before…they died." She swallowed and turned her head away again, probably ashamed of the tears that started gathering in her eyes. Damian didn't care about them. He already knew how sensitive she was.

But he _understood_. What Fay was trying to tell him even if she wasn’t eloquent about it. He also heard the unsaid parts.

"My world is……I don't ---I don't want to abandon it. I just---needed time." She paused, then she quietly added. "I still do." Because in that world, living anonymously, she did not have to deal with expectations. No one there would try to mould her in their vision. She was just Fay, the orphan runaway, and her big dog.

 _There it was_. The crux of why he's felt compelled to go to her so many times, to start that arrangement and bend the rules – his own, personal rules – for her.

Judging from their conversations so far, her values and principles have primarily been passed down from her parents. However, after their death, Fay had to contend with a world that did not treat her as her parents had. Damian understood, too, what it meant to grow up believing the world to be one way, and then being told it's not. To adapt to those new perceptions. To control aspects of his upbringing that few understood.

It sounded like Fay has been loved unconditionally by her parents, so in that respect, they differed. However, pain was pain. The circumstances that led her to question her self-worth and identity did not matter because they had the same result as his.

Maybe they were both birds sitting on a different branch from everyone else.

Damian wanted to know more. He had so many questions he wanted to ask, but Fay was too emotionally frazzled. Perhaps later, when she wasn't still experiencing the aftermath of what she dubbed a Bad Day.

But he was going to find out more.

Nobody had spoken after that. Fay sniffing quietly, wiping away at her eyes. Damian mulling over her words.

They ended up watching cartoons in silence. The atmosphere changed when he snatched the remote and tried to switch to a documentary. He didn't care about it, but the action addressed the tension that had formed between them. Fay could be argumentative when she wanted to be, he knew.

And he was rather excellent at starting arguments with people.

(She didn't need to know that Pennyworth had brought the food in separate bags.)

.

.

.

_19 th of November _

Thanksgiving was coming. Fay did her research on the celebration, interest piqued. She read about the colonists of the seventeenth-century and how the celebration came to be. The traditions and rituals observed each year. Based on her research, North American's tradition of Thanksgiving is rooted in English traditions and has a harvest festival's characteristics. Eating turkey is an essential element of the celebration, too. Not that peculiar, considering the celebrations that took place in her world.

Dana had asked her if Fay – and Bag, of course- wanted to join her and Robby for Thanksgiving dinner. It was customary for friends and families to come together to share bountiful meals and say what they were grateful for, and Dana was taking part in it as well. Mack himself was going to travel to New York to visit his sister and nieces. Fay had been tempted to accept, flattered Dana saw them important enough to invite them to such a festivity.

Several relatives of her late husband and close friends would be attending. Too many potential triggers. Fay did want to risk ruining their night by being either too withdrawn or emotional, so she ultimately turned the invite down. She much preferred being at the warehouse, eating the turkey and pumpkin pie – staples of Thanksgiving, apparently – with Bagheera and the strays. It was safer that way.

Fay wondered if Damian and his family celebrated Thanksgiving. They did not come across as a typical family, justifiably so. 

She wondered if he ever felt alone, even when surrounded by his family.

Just like she had.

_._

_._

_._

_20th th of November _

After the night Maysoon was attacked, few things could elicit a smile from her. Fewer things still could bring her laughter. It got easier, slightly so, as the months passed by.

Fay used to be a joyful child. A carefree one that sought adventure and engaged in mischief. It wasn't as if she hasn't experienced negative moments growing up, but they were mere blips in comparison to the horrors that came after. They didn't feel as such at the time, but she would take a thousand of those moments than _that_ night.

Animals would always make her happy, however. Or just generally being outside in the wilderness, where there are no secret agendas or expectations or judgemental looks. The wild has its own rules; it is a world of its own, and Fay has always had little to no difficulty finding her place in it. The jungle did not care if she was emotional. It did not care that Fay wasn't like her parents or about her failures. It does not set expectations other than she must treat it with respect, which she would have done anyway.

It is not quite that simple, most would say, being accepted by the jungle. For Fay, it had been, however. Growing up, she had sought and preferred the company of the jungle. And she had always been welcomed as if she was a part of it. The jungle, as dangerous as it could be, has never hurt her the way people have.

Even if it had felt different after the war. Even if Fay had struggled to connect with it after what happened (after what she _felt_ that night).

But, yes. Nature will always make Fay happy. Taking Pip, Nada, and Hector in had required little deliberation, even if it meant sharing her limited space and resources. It has never felt like a sacrifice to her. 

Damian would never understand the relief she felt having that piece of nature to herself (what he has gifted her with). How…healing it could be.

Just her and the wild.

Which is why that morning, taking advantage that it wasn’t raining anymore, Fay earnestly ventured into the grove. Bagheera and Pip followed. Nada wasn't interested in being outside when she had all the house to herself. With Hector, release in the wild was not an option. His domesticated behaviour indicated he has been a pet for a while before they met, so he would not have the skills to survive independently. So, she left him in his playpen as he seemed very happy with it.

They ran for several minutes until they arrived at a small meadow. It was a barren, brown sight full of puddles and mud that gurgled and bubbled underneath her boots. Bagheera didn't hesitate to jump in, splashing dirty water and sludge over her trousers, instigating her to play with him. She immediately engaged, Pip following along.

Within minutes, the mud slipped underneath her sleeves and beneath her collar, but she didn't care. She didn't _care_ , far too delighted by the entire situation. She couldn’t recall the last time she had felt so _untroubled_. Fay basked in the emotion with the same enthusiasm she did with the mud.

Pip, small and curly as he was, looked like a ball of mud after rolling around in a puddle. A ball that dripped and barked. He was stuck, his small legs sinking rapidly into the soil quenched by water. Her paladin chortled loudly before he pulled the dog away from the puddle by the collar around his neck. Damian had gotten all the strays one. It was the only time she'd seen the cat get annoyed with him. 

Fay leaned back, spreading her arms beside her, and ignoring the mud caking her clothes and hair, the cold seeping through. She stared at the sky, admiring the coiling and writhing of dark clouds, taking in the chill bite of the wind and the refreshing earthy scent of wet soil.

She closed her eyes.

It was a while before her peace was interrupted by someone tugging her boot by the laces. The pull was too strong for Pip, so she assumed it was Bagheera.

"Bag…no. Go away." She muttered.

Bag moved away from her boot to stand over her. He whined softly. 

_Wait. That doesn't sound like Bagheera._

Fay opened her eyes and found herself staring into the curious gaze of a familiar Great Dane. He looked rather funny from that angle, what with his floppy jaws and ears.

If Titus was there, that meant….

"I knew you were immature, but to engage in such child play is a new low, even for you."

Ah yes. The green-eyed devil was with him, as well. Of course. 

Mud squelched behind her head as the boy approached her, his boots stopping only a couple of feet away. Green eyes looked down at her.

Fay did not feel ashamed for once. Not when she was in such a good mood.

What was wrong with playing in the mud, anyway? 

"Hello." She smiled goofily, then giggled when Titus gave her a long lick over her cheek, tickling her. Pip yipped and clambered over her, and soon she found herself under attack by both dogs. Fay struggled to get up, feet sinking in the mud and nearly losing her jacket as the dogs tugged playfully on it. As soon as she was up, she slipped and ended up falling on her ass.

She laughed sheepishly when she saw Damian roll his eyes at her.

Bagheera stepped near the boy and made eye contact with Fay. He was not projecting his emotions, but Fay detected the mischief in his eyes all the same. That was the only warning she or the boy had before he suddenly started shaking his fur. Vigorously. It did not make much of a difference for Fay or Pip as they already dirty, but Damian, on the other hand….

Standing so near the boy had been a calculated move on her paladin's end.

Silence fell between them. Fay stared bewildered at the sludge that had landed on Damian's clothes and _his face._ Bagheera chortled, projecting his amusement intentionally, no doubt so he could rub salt in the boy’s metaphorical wound. Her paladin had forged such a peculiar relationship with the boy. They both liked antagonizing each other.

Fay didn't get the chance to reflect on that, far too distracted by the bubbling feeling in her chest. It manifested as unexpectedly as it did when she had formally met Damian at the restaurant. This time, she didn't hold back.

She laughed _hard._

It wasn't funny enough to warrant such a reaction from her, but Fay could not help herself. There was something hysterical about watching the boy reach and wipe the mud away, only to smear it further. His thunderous look only egged her on, despite her self-preservation telling her that he was bound to reconsider imprisoning her if she kept laughing at him.

The sound of her laughter felt foreign to her ears after such a long time, but it was indubitably coming from her.

Then chaos ensued.

Damian jumped her, Bagheera jumped him, and Titus and Pip joined in, if only because they didn't want to miss the action. Fay lost her beanie and gloves and found herself rolling around in the muddy ground, either trying to escape Damian or avoid getting tangled in all the furry limbs. Her amusement didn't fade, not even realizing she was still smiling as she managed to get up and start running away, chucking her jacket in the process. It weighed her down.

Fay wasn't in danger, or otherwise, Bagheera wouldn't have allowed Titus to push him away from Damian, starting a playful fight of their own.

Within seconds, Fay found herself back on the ground, not even able to make it five feet before the boy caught up with her. He really was fast. She squealed when he shoved a handful of mud over her face, an action which she regretted immediately because some of it went in her mouth.

But it _was_ a Good Day, and she did have more psychical strength than she has had in months. The adrenaline quieted her fears and thoughts, and instincts took over. Fay isn't sure, but she might have loudly called him an asshole at one point when she started fighting back (oh, she had wanted to do that for a long time). They both ended up grappling on the ground.

Albeit a human child, Damian moved with the same agility and speed that Bagheera had. He also had the strength to overpower her. Fay realized he must've been going easy on her when he became twice as forceful as before after managing to throw him off once. Instinct and memory muscle drove most of her movements, but she was rapidly growing tired of always trying to evade him. She ended up on her stomach, arm twisted behind her back. Not painfully, but enough to block her from moving. 

"You ought to yield before you hurt yourself." He threatened, smugness colouring his voice. “You don’t stand a chance.’’

_'You loser. You're not even fighting back?'_

_'How about we make her beg?'_

Anger bubbled up to the surface unexpectedly, and before she knew it, she had summoned her flux. Mud was water and earth, after all. A small but quick wave of mud threw him off her, forcing him to release her as he jumped backwards, recovering with a grace she envied.

Her marks throbbed. The skin around her wrist tingled, the scars left behind by the bracelets burning. It was all in her mind. It had to be. The bracelets were gone; they couldn’t hurt her anymore. And her injuries have healed already. Blood dripped out of her nose, bringing along with it a strong sense of disappointment. Having fun was such a rare occurrence; why did they have to be tainted in that way, too?

Damian crouched next to her, handing her a handkerchief. "Are you hurt?" he asked quietly. Fay looked up at him and saw that he was as caked in mud as she felt. There was not an inch of them that wasn't covered in soil by that point.

"Yes---yes, of course." Did he think he hurt her? "It's…. it's not you." She lowered her gaze. "It's my fault."

"Don't be an idiot." He snorted. “I—I shouldn’t have incapacitated you like that.’’

Except she was meant to withstand far worse than that. It just made her weakness sting more.

Bagheera stepped beside her, concerned. She smiled at him, weakly but reassuringly. The anger was gone as soon as it came, and the adrenaline was fading, leaving behind deep-seated exhaustion.

"Where did you learn those movements?" He asked. "Was that part of your training?"

Fay smiled ruefully. "Yes, and um, no. Psychical combat was something I had to learn, but I wasn't very good at it." She glanced at her paladin. "I used to spend a long time in the jungle, so…I guess you could say I got used to um, play with—well, with animals." If only he knew. She bowed her head, wondering if he'll make fun of her. Others have. "…I didn't spend much time with other children."

"Hn. It has resulted beneficial for you."

She blinked in surprise. Was that a compliment?

"Wh-what?" She looked up at him. "You—you don't think it's…weird?"

Damian scoffed, then smirked. "Let's just say I know a thing or two about unconventional training." He didn't elaborate on that.

But he did end up giving her a piggyback ride back to the warehouse.

She found it hard not to smile.

"Stop grinning like an idiot, or I will _drag_ you back."

Usually, she believed him capable of following through with his threats. But not then. 

"That’s---that’s not why I am smiling.’’ Meh, maybe a bit, it was. “….it was a Good Day, that’s all.’’ Despite how it ended.

“Hn.’’

It took them several hours to get cleaned.

But it was worth it.

.

Bagheera wasn’t sure if his Fay realized, but she kept smiling throughout the entire time she gave him a bath. 

It had been a good day, indeed. His Fay had played and smiled and laughed like she once used to.

The boy could hide it all he wanted, but he enjoyed the mud fight too.

.

“I don’t like this any more than you do,’’ Damian remarked gruffly as he reached to scrub Titus’ hind legs. “Stay still.’’

The dog whined softly but stopped squirming.

When they arrived at the property, Damian hadn’t expected the visit to go that way. He had planned on asking her a few questions about her world. Instead, he found the girl playing in the mud, looking uncharacteristically joyful. She _laughed_ , too, a _t_ him. He wanted to, but he could not summon any ire, however. Damian had never seen her quite that happy, that carefree. Vocal, too, calling him an asshole. Reckless, thinking she’d get away with it.

He didn’t expect Fay would engage with him in that fight, either (But he had hoped she would).

Her smile was almost as big as the one from that night.

The anger had manifested again, too. Fay used it to level the playfield, to get him to release her. The attack hadn’t been strong enough to cause him any injury, but she had been quick about it. With the right control over it, Fay could be dangerous.

Damian smirked. What else did she have in store, he wondered?

What would the next pieces of the puzzle reveal?

.

“Bagheera uses the flux, as well. In his other form.’’ Damian remarked as they both sat on the couch, blankets around them as they waited for the food in the oven to cook. There was something undeniably domestic about it, but Fay tried not to ponder on it too much. Or how content she kept feeling with the way the day was turning out. 

“Bagheera’s species is called _Damat_ ,’’ Fay said, watching her Paladin allow Pip to cuddle next to him. Titoh was sitting on the sofa next to Damian, his head propped in the boy’s lap. “And he is my paladin.’’

Damian looked at her curiously, eyes narrowing slightly. “…Paladin. As in a knight?’’ 

“A paladin is a warrior’s partner, and they are warriors in their own right,’’ Fay explained. Paladins are not pets. To a warrior, they are an extension of themselves and vice-versa. They are loyal confidants and friends. To Fay herself, Bagheera is family. They grew up together, with Fay having known him since she was around five years old, and he was but a pup. Historically, warrior clans have bred certain species that they considered to be most effective in battle, a custom that has been frowned up in recent decades as it was deemed inhumane. That is not, however, the only way for a warrior to have a paladin. Some are paired with one since their birth, while others take their time to find one until they build a strong connection. Paladins must trust their warriors, and they must want to be in that partnership.

Not all warriors have a paladin, and equally, it is no longer thought that only a warrior can have one.

“What about you?’’ Damian asked. “If you’ve had him since you were young, was he assigned to you?’’

“No, not exactly.’’ She paused, hesitating as she always did whenever he asked anything concerning her family. “My mother…found him.’’ She said after a few moments of silence, trying to gather her thoughts and remain calm. “He was injured. Badly. It took him a few weeks to recover, and we thought he’d die…. but he made it.’’ Fay smiled, glancing at her Paladin. He looked as if he was asleep, but she knew better. “We were always together after that.’’ It wasn’t the full story, but it didn’t really matter. The outcome was the same. 

Damian thought about Goliath. How he found the dragon bat during his Year of Blood, his decision to keep and turn him into his own champion. The wrong he’s done by him yet how the beast has remained loyal to him.

“In that case, I believe I have a paladin of my own.’’

Fay looked at him in surprise, then glanced at Titus.

“Not Titus, although he is a loyal companion,’’ Damian said, watching her from the corner of his eyes. “His name is Goliath. He is the last of an ancient species of dragon bats used to guard the sacred sceptre of Bialya.’’ He declared proudly, purposefully describing Goliath’s origin to gauge her reaction. Fay stared at him, curiously before smiling. Close lipped as it usually was, but a genuine one, nonetheless. She really was unusually cheerful that day. 

What an…. interesting development.

“Can I meet him?’’ She asked shyly, eyes shining.

He turned his gaze away, not sure what to make of the earnest look on her face.

“Maybe.’’

.

.

.

_22 nd of November _

According to Alfred, the average weight for someone her age and height are around ninety-two pounds. At her lowest, in late summer months and beginning of autumn, she was twenty-two pounds under.

She did not have the physiology of a regular child, however. Once her body had started to assimilate the nutrients as effectively as it should have, she had begun healing more effectively. Cuts and bruises closed and faded far quicker than before, and she no longer felt sluggish or weak. Her reflexes had improved exponentially. Fay was more alert, and it wasn’t because of paranoia or anxiety. It was as if the veil that had gradually grown thicker between her and the world was being destroyed piece by piece each day. 

Each week felt better than the last, psychically at least. Her flux was slowly growing stronger, but her sense of it varied through the day. 

The mud fight had convinced her to create a training schedule---go back to the basics and work her way from there in channelling her flux. It was what her mother always advised. Starting from zero was sometimes best to recalibrate mind, body and soul (not that she held much hope for reaching the level of balance or control her mother had). Fay also wanted to commit to more psychical exercise, starting with running twice a day. She had plenty of weight to put back on, including muscle mass.

As much as she hated the idea, Damian’s strict approach to food plans had worked, so he was the person to go to. Fay did not have access to the food in her world, so she needed his help to understand how she could safely and effectively increase her nutritional intake. 

“Damian?’’ She leaned over the sofa, near his shoulder. He hadn’t shown up at the warehouse in two days and had not been in communication since the afternoon after their mud fight. When he did show up that day, he had spent several hours in his bedroom. If it hadn’t been for Bagheera, she wouldn’t have even known he was inside the house. It wasn’t until late afternoon that he came downstairs, plopping down on the sofa and continued to tap away at his laptop.

“What is it?’’

“Can…. can you help me with something?’’ Fay bit her lip, feeling slightly nervous. “I want to change my food plan.’’

He finished whatever he was busy with and closed the lid on his laptop, pushing it away. “Why? Are you feeling nauseous again?’’ He turned to the side to look at her.

Fay shook her head. “No. Actually, I feel…good. But my energy levels are still…low compared to before. When I was in Maysoon, I mean.’’ She instinctively glanced down at her wrists. They were completely healed now, save for a few small scars scattered around the circumference of her wrist. They were no longer recognizable as the bracelets' seals, but some were bound to be permanent. A reminder, even if they faded, of how close she came to dying. If it hadn’t been for Halloween night, Fay wondered if she would have survived at all by the time the bracelets were done damaging her.

“I want to train my flux. Just the basics.’’ She looked at him. “But when I do that, my body burns through calories really quickly.’’

Damian nodded. “I see. So, you want to counteract that by increasing the level of nutrients. What do these basics consist of?’’ Fay’s lips twitched. She didn’t want to talk in-depth about the exercises and rituals she went through, but she had no choice. If she wanted to return to her former psychical state and understand whether the extent to which the bracelets had affected her body and flux, she was going to need his support.

“Well…they’re exercises that I used to do when I was younger. Some of it….is not exactly training.’’ Fay pursued her lips. “It’s about small repetitions, about synchronizing with the elements. Nothing---nothing interesting really, but they can be…. tiring.’’

“Can I watch?’’

Of course, he’d ask. She wasn’t even surprised, even if she had hoped he wouldn’t.

“Some---some of them, maybe?’’ She asked tentatively. When he raised a brow at her, she sighed. “It’s…been a while, so I need to focus. And, um, if you’re there---‘’ Staring. Judging. Witnessing her failure. “I will get distracted. However—I will show you. Once I get better at it. I honestly don’t even know…. what stage I am at, currently.’’ Fay glanced down at her wrists. “My flux doesn’t feel right, still.’’

He didn’t look happy with her refusal, but he was satisfied with her offer.

“Very well. We’ll go into town tomorrow.’’ He smirked lightly. “I won’t watch, but I expect you to explain to me what the training consists of.’’

She nodded.

Fair enough.

.

George Sander returned to his family six months and eight days after going missing. His decomposing, twisted body was found inside a barrel abandoned in a garbage dump not far from the Tilt ‘N Spin. Police commissioner Gordon closed the case officially after reiterating the story he had offered weeks earlier. George had gotten himself caught in the illegal trade of goods organized by Edelstein, facilitated by Finnegan and Wyatt. The young man had attempted to get in touch with Helen Wilmot, for reasons unknown, which has led to her unfortunate demise.

No mention was made of the USB key he left behind. Or the Angel, whose attack at the Gotham Academy had been passed off as an unrelated incident. Halloween, after all, had a way of bringing out the crazy in people. Fay felt saddened that the world will never know he died trying to do the right thing. That, if it hadn’t been for his bravery and desire to protect others, she wouldn’t have found the USB herself.

Damian told her that it was wiser if nobody knew about the USB or who the Angel was. All that mattered is that Angela Russo was now gone, and the children were safe.

“Will his family know?’’ She asked quietly as they both sat on the sofa watching the news. “That he died—trying to help?’’

The boy nodded. “A version of it, anyway. Gordon will inform the family that the USB key was found at Hannah Walker’s apartment, containing information on records that Edelstein falsified.’’

Fay sighed, relieved. “…I am glad.’’

It wasn’t fair the whole truth couldn’t be discussed. The two corrupt officers were exposed, but George will never be publicly acknowledged for his actions. People are still likely to remember him as the boy with a troubled background that inadvertently caused his former mentor's death, a beloved member of the community.

“She knew, didn’t she?’’ Fay asked a moment later, breaking the silence that fell over them after Damian turned off the TV. “Hannah Walker knew where it was, but she---she lied instead.’’

“Yes. She died to protect Sanders.’’

Fay wondered how many lies her parents had hidden.

How much of the truth was she missing of as well? 


	20. Of obliviousness, point of no return and training.

_ "There is no point of no return. U-turns are never prohibited in life.  _ _   
_ _ It is just that when we return, we may not find the old place, people or feelings that once existed."  _

\- Deepshikha

.

.

.

_ 25 _ _ th _ _ of November  _

"What is he doing now, Alfred?"

_ 'He's finished his training, sir. After six hours. I take it your talk has not gone well.' _

"Hn. There was no talk. He's gotten in his head that I have an issue with him visiting the girl." 

_ 'Well, have you told him that's not the case?' _

"…I did not tell him I had an issue with it." 

There was a sigh on the other line. ' _ What exactly have you told him, Master Bruce?' _

"That he has been going to the warehouse often lately, and he should be careful about it." 

So, perhaps not the best choice of terms. Not when they were directed at his volatile son, who treated his arrangement with the girl as if it was a secret. Not when he was selective about the information he had on her. 

' _ I believe you told him he would be trusted with Miss Fay.' _

"I do. That does not mean he is not compromised by her."

_ 'And if he is, then? You'll forbid him from spending time at the warehouse?' _ Another sigh. Alfred was not feeling incredibly patient that day. ' _ Perhaps this is not about Damian being compromised.'  _

"What's that supposed to mean?" 

_ 'It is normal for a father to want his son to communicate with him. Especially when said son has been…. reserved about his friendships.' _

If Alfred had been in the cave, rather than watching Damian from the kitchen window, then perhaps he would have seen Bruce's look of indignation. Then again, the butler wouldn't have been fazed by it. He was immune to the Dark Knight's scowl. 

"Are you saying it's my fault?" That's precisely what he was saying. He didn't need to be the world's greatest detective to figure that out. 

A clipped ' _ Sir.' _ Alfred was  _ not _ happy. ' _ Are you suggesting that you are compromised by your bonds?'  _ Yes. No. Of course. But they are also crucial to him. Where would he be without Alfred? What would his life be like had he not adopted the children he did? 

Sneaky butler. 

' _ You've asked Damian that he should try to make bonds outside the ones provided by the vigilante environment. Has it occurred to you that Damian may not be open about it because he is still learning? He has chosen his bond and what he needs next is for him to know that he is trusted to find his own way.'  _ Even if it means he won't come to Bruce for help. That he'll go to Alfred or Dick first, which Damian already has. 

Because he is Batman first, then Bruce Wayne. 

It was rather annoying, but his old friend was right. Bruce would have preferred if Damian talked to him about what was happening, not just as Robin to his Batman but as a son to father. 

"What do you suggest?"

_ 'Be patient.'  _

Batman could be patient. 

Damian's father found it more challenging.

But he did not wish to let his son down. 

.

.

.

_ 27 _ _ th _ _ of November _

Thanksgiving was uneventful, for the better part of the day. Fay compromised with Dana and went to see her for lunch. Fifteen-odd people were expected for dinner, so the blond was incredibly busy with cooking. Gloria was left to watch over Soul Bowl, and Mack had worked on a reduced shift before passing the torch to Robby. Gloria and her husband were also invited for Thanksgiving dinner, and they were planning on joining after closing the soup kitchen a couple of hours earlier. 

Fay helped Dana in the kitchen, learning about the various traditional dishes that people ate daily and making pleasant conversation with the woman. Around four in the afternoon, she ended up leaving with a bag full of food herself, courtesy of Dana, who refused to hear any protests from Fay on the basis it was the least she could do. Fay had no idea why the woman felt responsible for her to that extent, but she was flattered by her continued generosity. 

After returning to the warehouse, Fay spent most of the early evening on the ground floor seating area, Thanksgiving dishes spread out on the table before her, sharing with Bag and the strays while watching TV. Damian didn't say whether he would come over or not – he never really did- but when he didn't show up by eleven in the evening, Fay knew she won't see him until the day after. She told herself the reason she couldn't go to sleep was that she had too much energy. That day she hadn't gone running, and the trip to Gotham had only been partially on foot. 

It wasn't because there was a part of her that worried Damian hadn't shown up in three days. That they barely talked in that time. Her insecurities came rushing back quickly, dictating that he had finally gotten sick of being around her, that her usefulness has run out. Fay squashed those thoughts away, feeling humiliated with her own neediness and desperation. She hasn't changed much, has she? It wasn't Damian's fault that she was so pathetic she was becoming increasingly attached that she had reached the point of no return in seeing him as a friend. Friendships are not friendships if they're one-sided. Hasn't she learned that the hard way already? 

What would Titoh think if he knew? Maybe he wouldn't care. Fay wasn't sure if he cared that she has been gone for so long. She knew the words he's spoken to her had come from the pain he carried as well. They weren't any less devastating, even considering that Fay had spent days hoping – foolishly so– that maybe he'd regret it. That he doesn't love her as little as he made her think, that he still sees her as his sister just like she always thought of him as her brother. Then again, his words have not been untrue. Fay agreed with him on many points, so that's why, ultimately, she had resigned herself that even though he is alive, they'll never be a family again. Maybe one can't choose their family too, after all. 

The same pathetic, selfish side of her that wanted Titoh to miss her, to be hurt about her leaving was the same one who wished Damian to acknowledge her as his friend.  _ What a ridiculous thought _ , she chastised herself. Damian was not the type to have friends, and even if he did, why would it be Fay out of all people? 

It had been a relatively Good Day, she told herself. Why ruin it with such thoughts? 

Fay distracted herself with a few chapters from the  _ Hunchback of Notre Dame _ with the cartoon channel, set on a low volume, running in the background. She fell asleep after midnight. She wasn't sure what triggered the night terrors that night. Was it the thoughts of her brother-not-brother, which inevitably led her to think about her parents? Was it the insidious thoughts of what will happen once her arrangement with Damian comes to an end? 

Fay had no idea. 

But she dreamt of a field full of disfigured bodies in a Maysoon that is no longer the home she remembers. It is a pile of burning rubble. Everything is either brown or red. There are no colours. Even the jungle looks---defeated. Wilted. Her mother is there, waiting for her, where the bodies finish, and the jungle starts. She is a burst of colour in that apocalyptic, twisted version of her homeland, and she lifts her hand towards Fay, beckoning. 

Let's go home, she says. Let's go. 

Fay has done that before, trying to run towards her mother. Hoping that once she reaches the woman, she'll find out that she's been dreaming everything. That the night Maysoon was attacked never happened. That it's all been one long, elaborate nightmare put in her head by a dream forger. Deep down, she knows that's just wishful thinking, but she still tries to reach her mother. The bodies start moving, moaning, and groaning and wailing. Mutilated limbs try to stop her, going hungrily for her shoes and trousers, and Fay tries to fight them, calls to her mother to help her. 

Her real mother would have never stood there, watching her struggle like that. She wouldn't have kept smiling. Fay is trapped, struggles against the hold of the undead, the inhuman sounds starting to take shape into voices. Some she recognizes. They're the same voices that she hears whenever she's in the throes of a panic attack. The ones reminding her of her failures. Other voices are from  _ that  _ night. The ones that screamed for help and mercy and relief. 

Fay tries to scream, but her own voice has been stolen, and nothing comes out. But she senses everything else vividly—the scent of smoke and burned flesh. The tight, suffocating grip of the hands gripping onto her body, some more punishing than others as their claws dig into her skin. Fay can't breathe. No amount of struggling will help her, and she desperately wonders how her mother could just stand there and look at her. Except when she looks up, her mother's smile is gone, and she seems just as dead as everything else around them. Part of her face is peeling away, revealing the worm-infested muscle beneath, and her eyes are no longer green but pitch black like an abyss. 

That thing is no longer her mother. It just a perversion of the woman and Fay is held into place, forced to keep looking at the monster that bears her mother's resemblance by the hands keeping her head in place. Her mother-not-mother opens its mouth, unhinges inhumanly to reveal nothing but darkness beyond it. An abyss that calls to Fay and promises nothing but suffering. 

Something moves inside that darkness. 

The terror that assails Fay is so deep that she feels it in her bones. In her own very soul. The flux is never present in those dreams. She's always defenceless. Fay closes her eyes and screams in her own head that she must wake up. That she cannot be there when the darkness takes shape and exits the morbid caricature of her mother because if it reaches her, she will indeed never wake up again. 

The blood goes cold in her veins. The bodies disappear, their voices mingling in an unintelligible cacophony of noises that gradually morphs into a loud burble. Her heart is pumping so hard it makes her wonder if it was even functioning correctly before. 

_ 'Fay, wake up.' _

…Father? No. Uncle? No, no. The voice is not as deep as theirs. It's familiar. 

A sense of calmness washes over her, like a balm for her raw, frazzled emotions and Fay breathes for what feels like the first time. The world around her shifts and she becomes aware of the cold water running down on her. Someone is still holding her, and she struggles, but the arms are stronger than her again. Are they trying to drown her? 

"Calm down." The voice says firmly in her ear. "You're dreaming. It's not real." 

…Is it not? Are her parents alive? Is Maysoon as it should be? A safe place full of beauty and laughter and dreams? 

She stops struggling, feeling too tired or cold to do so. Her stomach lurched, but she didn't vomit. The voice owner didn't let go, quietly repeating to her to stay calm, that she's safe, that there's no one there to hurt her. Perhaps it's the gentleness of those words that caused her to take so long in recognizing who the person is. 

Fay opened her eyes, vision blurred by tears and water drops. She is trembling, uncontrollably so, and the tiled floor is uncomfortable under her, but the body behind her is warm and firm and unyielding. One arm snaked under her left arm and around her shoulder, and another loosely around her waist. She must have been trying to pry them off because when she looked down, she saw her hands have been digging into the boy's wrists, leaving angry crescent-moon shaped marks and long red lines. Fay immediately released him, horror washing over her when her mind finally processed what was happening. 

Damian was there. He was  _ there _ , on the floor, holding her under the cold water running from the faucets above their heads. Bagheera himself was standing at the large shower cabin entrance, a mixture of relief and concern projecting off him. That's where the soothing sense of calmness came from. 

And it had been Damian's voice beckoning her back out of the land of dreams. 

"What—what--- _ no _ \---" She whispered, mortified. A series of fragmented thoughts came through her mind. 

He had heard her. 

He had seen her. 

Damian had witnessed everything. He knows now. 

He knows how  _ broken  _ she is. 

And she--- _ I hurt him.  _

Did she lose control too? Did he see how volatile she was in those moments as well? 

"Breathe." He ordered, the arms around her not loosening. He didn't sound angry, but that did nothing to stop the rush of shame and guilt that hit her. 

_ heknows,heknows,heknows,heknows _

Damian continued to instruct her in breathing, just like he did when she had a panic attack. Fay did as she was told, even if she felt like screaming again. When he was satisfied with her breathing, Damian pulled both up, not bothering to turn off the faucet as he guided her out of the shower cabin. Fay opened her mouth to speak, but her teeth were chattering so hard, she barely managed to get through more than a few syllables. Her pyjamas hung uncomfortably on her and her bare feet numb, and she found herself clutching on Bagheera because she could barely stand up. 

Damian threw a towel around her before both boy and beast guided her out of the bathroom and back into the bedroom. Fay looked around the room. There was not as much damage as she expected but judging by the duvet and pillows strewn on the floor, the chair knocked down, and the disarray on the desk, Fay must have put up a struggle when Damian dragged her to the bathroom. 

He dragged her to the bathroom. 

Because he had been in her bedroom. 

Because he must've heard her. 

Fay plopped down on the edge of the bed, and she clutched the towel around herself, both out of cold and to use it as a shield. Her head was throbbing. 

She was awake, but it still felt as if she was stuck in a nightmare. One that no cold shower was going to help her out of. 

Bagheera pressed himself against her legs, his emotions projecting onto her, lulling her anxiety away slightly. Fay didn't look up, but she heard Damian step into the walk-in closet and rummage around. A few seconds later, he came out carrying a jumper and a pair of cotton trousers, and he sat them on the bed next to her. "You need to get changed." He said quietly. "I will be in the bathroom until you're done." 

Fay nodded and didn't dare move until he was in the bathroom, the door closed behind him. She lowered the towel and begun the slow, uncomfortable process of removing her wet pyjamas so she could pull on the dry clothes. Damian didn't rush her, didn't come out of the bathroom until she was fully dressed, and she gave Bagheera the signal to call him back in. Fay would lie if she said she didn't contemplate just running out of the room, but she knew that to be a ridiculous plan. Damian stepped back in, pulling the fallen chair swiftly back up with one foot while she wrapped her wet clothes in the towel and left it by the bed. She felt like crying again, but her eyes felt too tired, too raw. Her marks throbbed faintly, and her flux, while she could feel it stronger than usual, was not reacting in any manner. 

Strange. 

Fay refused to meet Damian's eyes as she sat on the bed, and he handed her the duvet and pillows. "I am going to get changed." His t-shirt and trousers were just as soaked as her pyjamas had been. Fay eyed the marks on his forearm and wrists before nodding. She pulled her knees up to her chest and wrapped her duvet around herself. Damian was gone only for a few minutes, but by the time he returned, Fay's anxiety had built back up, causing her to wring her hands almost obsessively. 

Damian closed the door behind him, shuffled around the room momentarily before he climbed on the bed to sit across from her. A smaller towel plopped over on her head, and Fay jumped, accidentally meeting his gaze. She quickly bowed her head and reached to grab the towel, but her arms felt weak, so she didn't even have the strength to keep her hands up. There was no need, in the end. Damian leaned over on his knees and rubbed the excess water from her hair himself. 

It was such an unexpected and---familiar gesture that she had no idea how to react. There were just too many emotions to process so, Fay settled for sitting there awkwardly, staring at her hands. When he was done, Damian removed the towel and replaced it with a dry one. However, he didn't distance himself from her, only leaning back to sit in a kneeling position. Bagheera stood by the bed, observing. 

Fay caught sight of the marks on his arms again. 

"I've had far worse than some scratches." He remarked with a scoff. "So, there's no need to feel guilty about it." 

What kind of reasoning was that? Just because he's experienced worse pain, that did not excuse her actions. 

"That's --- that's not an excuse f-for what I did." She whispered. Her teeth had stopped chattering, but she was still trembling. "I---I---I am sorry…" Fresh tears gathered anew in her eyes. "……, I can't control it." 

"I know," Damian said simply. "You weren't speaking in English. I have never heard that language before." Fay's jaw clenched, her bottom lip catching between her teeth. "Will you…tell me about it? What you dreamt of?" Even before he was done talking, she started shaking her head, an action she regretted because the gesture intensified her headache. 

Damian sighed. "Because you're afraid of what I will think of you." 

_ Yes. But it's also not easy talking about it.  _

Fay's silence, as many times in the past, was an answer. 

"Look at me." Fay hesitantly did, feeling a strong sense of déjà vu. The last time they were in that position – her vulnerable and him asking her to look at him – was less than a month earlier. It felt like so much longer. A few tears escaped her eyes, and she furiously wiped at her cheeks, although it was too late to hide them. 

It was too late to hide most things, for that matter. 

"My first kill was when I was five years old." Fay met his gaze, startled by that sudden confession. The boy's eyes were furrowed, his lips pressed in a tight line, as he crossed his arms over his chest. "By the time I was ten years old, my count was in triple digits. Every moment of my life until that point had been dedicated to mastering the many facets of art. Particularly killing people. I've excelled in all of them." He remarked calmly, if not slightly boastful as if he talked about the weather and not that he was a killer. Damian's head cocked to the side as he assessed her, trying to gauge her reaction. "My mother wanted to create the perfect assassin, and she succeeded." 

Fay's heart dropped to her stomach. She wasn't entirely shocked as others would have been to him admitting the nature of his childhood. In Maysoon, it wouldn't have been shocking at all. In her family, even less so. At least in the generations preceding hers. However, Fay had not expected to hear any of those words coming out of his mouth or how easily he admitted to his mother, treating him as a weapon. Not that was a novel idea – a parent weaponizing their children – in her world, either. Fay had suspected he grew up in a highly disciplined environment, that he must have trained since young to take on Robin's mantle at that age. She also knew he was dangerous, and when she'd considered that, Fay had not eliminated the possibility that he may have killed. But to have killed hundreds already? She wasn't sure how she felt about it. 

Except for Robin… he was not an assassin, was he? Robby told her that Batman and Robin supported the police officers in making sure criminals are brought to justice. Damian must've picked up on the confusion she felt because he immediately answered her question. 

"I was left in my father's care when I was ten years old." He continued. "I decided I wanted to take a different path and remained as his Robin. Do you understand why I am telling you this?" There was a part of her that doubted she was awake at all. Fay swallowed nervously. "I—I am not sure." She admitted. Her mind felt sluggish; she couldn't think properly. 

"There is nothing you can say to me that I would find shocking or frightening. Regardless of how different your world may be, death is death." He said firmly, his tone leaving no space for debate. Fay wasn't sure she believed his declaration---he spoke in absolutes again – but she did understand what he was trying to tell her. That he would not turn away in fear or disgust if she were to say to him the source of her tormenting dreams. 

"I am not asking to use this information against you." He pointed out, then clicked his teeth. "— _ Tt _ \--I want to know because I want to know." Well, that wasn't much of an answer. Did he want to satisfy a curiosity, then? And just because he said he won't use it against her, it doesn't mean he's telling the truth. To her surprise, he didn't push further than that. "You don't have to answer now—go to sleep." 

Fay shook her head. She couldn't relax enough to sleep even if she felt exhausted. The fear wasn't gone completely; every time she closed her eyes, she could see that  _ thing  _ that impersonated her mother. The worst part was, she couldn't even ascertain whether she saw such a creature that night when Maysoon was attacked. Her memories still didn't make sense most of the time. 

Damian handed her the water bottle before settling beside her, this time putting some distance between them. "Go to sleep, Fay." The girl stared at him with a mix of apprehension and confusion, but when it became clear he intended on staying with her until she at least attempted to go back to sleep, Fay tentatively settled more in-depth into the duvet. Huddling as close as possible to the edge of the bed, with her back turned to him, she met her paladin's gaze as he stayed as close as possible to her. Fay did not have the emotional or psychical strength to contemplate what had just happened, and despite her initial protests, as soon as she laid her head down on the pillow, she started feeling drowsy. Her paladin's emotions were like a lullaby, reducing her anxiety. As soon as she began to warm up, her muscles relaxed, and her limbs felt heavy as if made of lead. 

Fay hadn't paid attention to what time it was until then, as the curtains blocked her view of the world outside but judging how dark it was still, she doubted it was even dawn yet. The rain had stopped, but the winds had intensified, making the trees creak and moan out in the grove. 

She fell asleep within minutes. 

. 

When Fay woke up several hours later, she became aware of a few things immediately. 

One, unfortunately, she had not dreamt that Damian had been there when she experienced a night terror. Nor that she had injured him while he tried to drag her to the bathroom. Why he had been in her room in the first place remained a mystery as he had promised he would not interfere if he did hear her experiencing nightmares. That he had stayed with her, using cold water to jolt her awake and had seemed unfazed by the entire situation, was not expected. Neither was the fact that he had comforted her---but Fay was still on the fence about whether she imagined that or not. 

Two, Damian was asleep barely an arm's length from her, and she knew that because she had unwittingly rolled on her other side, so she was facing him. As she had hogged the duvet all to herself, using it as a shield around herself, he hadn't used anything to cover himself, but he didn't look cold. In fact, he looked so still she could have said he was not alive anymore as he laid supine with one hand bent over his stomach. Sweet Maysoon, he didn't relax even when he was asleep. His trademark frown was not entirely gone, but the lines on his face had…eased slightly. 

An assassin. The boy with green eyes was an assassin. Or he had been before he chose to become Robin. 

Perhaps it was a testament to how dysfunctional her own upbringing is that she finds it fascinating instead of frightening. Not that she didn't consider him dangerous or that she wasn't wary of him. Fay felt as vulnerable and ashamed as she did earlier, but she also had questions. From the start, Damian had been so different from her. Confident, prodigious, assertive – bullish at times, really. Then, on Halloween night, she had learned that toughness she had seen every day in Damian Wayne did not falter when he was Robin. If anything, he was even stronger than she had made him out to be. Not in the traditional sense, necessarily, although she had envied his psychical fitness many times over. It was that--- _ something _ that she had seen in others. Fay couldn't find the right word for it even if she saw it manifest many times in other people around her, including her parents. 

It was the type of strength that made people go further than most people would. Damian had not screamed once when she was cutting into him. He was in pain, yet he had just gritted his teeth and bit his glove, and then  _ got up  _ and pushed through the pain so he could finish his mission. Saving the children. Yes, Bagheera had helped with that aspect by reducing some of his haemorrhage and pain but had it been Fay, she doubts she would have been able to walk around like he did, let alone fight for so long. She stood up that night too---but it almost cost her life. Those few minutes of strength had nearly destroyed her. Fay still wouldn't have called it bravery. Not when it had been anger to fuel her. What if she hadn't gotten angry? Where would she have found the power to get up? 

Emotions were good driving factors in using the flux, but a true master will know how to balance them. They would know when to summon anger and when not to, and their courage would not be rooted in anger or revenge. It hadn't only been anger that made her want to act, she knew, but the other emotions wouldn't have been enough on their own. Fay had truly wanted to protect Damian, and she had genuinely wanted to be able to fight for him and Bagheera rather than stand on the side-lines. But would she have been able to do that if she had not tapped into her fury? 

Would she have been able to remove the bracelets in any other situation? Most likely not. 

Fay did not know bloodlust, but she knew what it felt like to fall prey to her emotions. Both posed a danger for herself and the others around her. If it hadn't been for the pain and damage caused by the bracelets, would she have been able to stop herself? Would she have been able to control the flux? Most likely not. Certainly not after months of no training. 

"You are thinking too loud." The boy's voice washed over her thoughts, and Fay glanced up at his face. He had not opened his eyes, nor has he moved from his position. 

Fay opened her mouth to apologize, but he cut her off. 

"I don't want to hear it." 

She closed her mouth and pulled the duvet closer around herself. Bagheera was behind her, close. She could feel the low thrum of his emotions---relief, affection. Concern, too, but it was dulled out. Nada had settled herself next to Damian's legs, whereas Pip was at the end of the bed. Fay had no idea where Hector was---but Bagheera could find him if necessary. Fay had never really had someone sleep in proximity with her outside her family, including Moma. She had been on expeditions or mock missions with other children, which had required them to camp out, but that had been different. Bagheera or Titoh, or both, were generally with her. Even on those trips, she had to make alone, she hadn't really paid much attention to others, always choosing to sleep separately. Fay was perfectly fine with staying up in a tree. 

It was embarrassing---that was not the first time she had fallen asleep near him. It had nothing to do with him being a boy because she hadn't really made such considerations. However, instead, the vulnerability that came with sleeping around people that are not ones that she is still wary and mistrustful of. Especially prodigious ones who were trained to kill from a young age. 

She saw green. Damian was looking at her. Heat raised from her neck to her cheeks and ears because she thought again about the struggle she must've put up earlier. Her wet hair had caused moisture to lock around her scalp, keeping it cool and her headache to move to her sinuses and posterior of her eyes. 

Great. 

"It's incredible how your paladin sleeps next to you with your snoring." 

The nerve of him!

"…um, no, I don't."

"How would you know?" He quipped. "My hearing is excellent." 

"You didn't…have to stay," Fay grumbled, tempted to just pull the duvet over her head. 

Damian ignored her. "Do you have any idea how much you move in your sleep?" 

Fay stared at him, wondering if he had lost his mind. Or if she has and she imagined it all. 

"…. you're mean." 

"You almost assaulted me.  _ Again _ ." He was lying. He had to be. 

Or else she'll die of embarrassment. 

"You look fine to me." She mumbled miffed. Then she caught sight of the scratches and fingernail mark she left on his forearm, making her frown. She didn't apologize because she knew he'd only get meaner if she did, but she still felt guilty over it.

Damian flicked her forehead, and she jumped, making her gap at him in indignation. 

"A herb and gruyere frittata is an acceptable payment, to begin with." 

"… _ What? _ " 

He rolled his eyes at her as if she was the one making strange, sudden requests. What the hell was a frittata? 

"For the disturbance you've caused me, obviously." 

"What?" 

Damian was up on his feet within seconds, much to the disappointment of the cat. "Google it. You have the means now. I shall be expecting it served in the next thirty minutes." 

"You---you can't be serious." 

He was. 

He definitely was. 

Tyrannical, mad,  _ mad _ boy. 

. 

In the end, she did get up and cook but primarily because she was hungry too. Fay took a warm shower, then changed in a loose fleece jumper and a pair of thick tights. After drying her hair, she padded down to the kitchen, where Damian was already waiting for her at the kitchen table. He pointed out that she was late already preparing him food. She ignored him, both because she found his request ridiculous and because she was trying to come to terms with how strange the entire day was turning out to be. It's like he was aiming for a record of how many times he could leave her confused. 

She did look up what a frittata meant, although it took a few tries because she wasn't sure how the word was spelt. When she saw the recipe, she instantly decided that there was no way she would successfully cook it. Instead, she made an omelette that she was rather proud of because it came out fluffier than she thought it would. The fact that it was tasty and not just edible was a win as well. 

Damian did complain about it; of course, he would. He did, however, eat his portion. 

"You are defiant." He remarked, towards the end, breaking the silence that has fallen over them. Bagheera belched, having just finished his own breakfast ---while standing a little closer than necessary next to the boy. Damian threw him a disgusted look and chucked a fork at him, which the paladin dodged expertly. Fay resisted the urge to roll her eyes at them. They could deny it all they want, but Damian and Bag did like each other to an extent. If only enough to enjoy antagonizing each other. 

"…I really don't know how to make a fri—frittata." The word rolled off her tongue strangely. Italian. She was familiar with the culture and language, even knew some phrases from her mother, but she didn't speak Italian. 

"Not just now." He said. "You've defied my instructions and requests many times in the past. Even when you've refused my offer, despite being afraid, you still said no." 

Fay wasn't sure what he was getting at. 

Damian looked at her. "Why do you insist on letting people push you around if you're perfectly capable of defending yourself?" She has heard that question being asked many times over. Even by her mother. Fay didn't have a straight answer for it. It was fear, shyness, a desire to be liked and accepted, guilt, shame. Thinking she deserves the treatment others give her. There was always the expectation that she had to take the high road, to be diplomatic where others failed to do so. It was never just one reason. 

"…I don't know." Because she doesn't. Fay had never been particularly sociable or outspoken, but she had been far more confident when her parents had been alive. It was hard not to. They inspired her to be. Comparatively, Titoh had been quiet too, but he was far better at socializing with others, so they had complemented each other. "I am not a brave person." 

"No?" He raised a brow at her. "Then what do you call what you've done in the past? Going after Wilmot's thieves, fighting against those chimeras?" 

Fay glanced outside the windows at the raindrops hitting the glass and sliding down, racing one another in their descent. "…I am not sure if it was courage." She admitted quietly. 

"Because it was anger." 

She froze, the blood going cold in her veins again. Fay looked at him, mortified, but he was looking at the window as well. "What?" She breathed. 

Were all her secrets compromised? Was nothing safe from him anymore? 

Damian tilted his head towards her, meeting her gaze. "You're angry." She opened her mouth, but he beat her to it again. "Don't deny it. You can't lie to me." Fay pressed her lips together, jaw clenching, hands wringing again. "You were angry that night we faced off against the Angel. I've seen it before—when you refused to accept my offer, and I am certain it was anger that pushed you to go after Wilmot's robbers. Wasn't it?" Fay lowered her eyes to her hands. How could a part so private – so hidden – of her be seen so easily? Is she truly that transparent? Dread filled her veins. Fay thought she had been doing a good job at hiding it, that she had improved at it. 

"Why are you ashamed of it?" He asked. 

Fay bit the inside of her cheek. "Nothing…. good happens when I am angry." 

"If you hadn't gotten angry that night, the probability we would be standing here talking is low. At least not with all your limbs intact, anyway." Damian remarked. "I would say that was a rather effective use of your anger. It also freed you of those bracelets. They would have killed you eventually." Something was stuck in her throat. Fay tried to swallow, but it was more difficult than it should have. 

If she let the next words out of her mouth, she'd reach a new milestone in the amount of information she revealed about herself. There really would be no turning point. 

"…I—I don't know why." She whispered, head bowed. "Why---why I am angry. Not…always. I know—" She licked her lips. "---I know anger can be good but  _ not for me _ ." 

"Because you have trouble controlling your flux." He drawled. 

Fay nodded. "…. Sometimes. I—the flux is energy. It's tied in with my body and, um, mind and…soul, too. And---I get exhausted, and my marks hurt because I am not---I am not in shape. That's…easier to fix, I guess." Her eyes prickled, but she didn't cry. Fay rubbed one of her forearms nervously. "I---I am not always angry. It doesn't happen---often. But I am afraid---that if I lose control of it, I will hurt someone. I don't want to do that." 

"Have you?" 

She didn't respond. 

"Fay." His hand nudged her shoulder, making her look up at him. "I promised you I won't hurt you, so tell me the truth." 

Fay inhaled sharply, and she glanced at her paladin, who had come to stand near them. He was worried about her again, tenser than usual. She met Damian's gaze. "…um, once." More than once. But she wasn't ready to admit to it. "I, um…there was—these children, and they were being…" She bit her lip again, giving up on that line of thought. "I don't ---I don't even know how it happened. I just got angry, and I---I burned someone. Fire is not—really my element, and I couldn't control it." It was hard to breathe again, and Fay tried to take a deep breath before releasing it slowly. 

"Did they die?" He asked, far too casually for the question he was posing her. Calm, too. Why wasn't he angry? Disgusted? Disappointed? Or was he just hiding it all? Likely. 

Fay shook her head. It wasn't even the worst one, but following that incident, she had lost her brother. Figuratively, speaking. 

"…I didn't even realize I was angry." She admitted. "It just—happened." 

"I believe you." Her heart skipped a breath, and she looked up at him again, wondering if she'd imagined him saying that. But she didn't, and none of the emotions she had expected to see on his face was there. His expression was unreadable. "I do not believe you're capable of intentionally harming others, not without a valid cause." 

Just like that? It couldn't be that simple. 

There had to be a catch. Right?

"That's why you were wearing the bracelets, wasn't it?" Damian asked. "They were limiting the use of your flux." 

Fay thought about the wretched bracelets which now laid folded in a cloth in one of her drawers. They were irreparable. The seals cracked and no longer functioning. Some residual energy persisted, and she felt it when Damian handed them to her after running analysis over them. Out of curiosity, mostly, he said. The computer did not recognize all the bracelet's components-- there were steel and another metal. Fay had no name for it in English, but she had explained that it was a type of metal found naturally in her world effective at conducting energy. In combination with the steel, the bracelets were incredibly durable, and the runes inscribed on the inside were meant to act like flexible dam walls, to restrict her flux if it became too volatile. In theory, the bracelets should have barely interfered with her general use of the flux. 

"…they were meant to be temporary." Fay said. "And I told you, um, they weren't meant to…do that to me. To—to hurt me." 

"But it was your family who made you wear them." He said through gritted teeth. 

Fay looked at him warily. "I—I accepted. It was not—not against my will…" 

"Stop defending them." He said suddenly, nothing short of a snarl. "You said it yourself that the flux is a natural part of you. Something that is deeply intertwined with your body, mind, and soul. The bracelets were---" His expression was contorted by anger of his own. Unlike Fay, he always seemed comfortable expressing it. "---they were a prison." Fay's chin trembled slightly. She couldn't criticize his choice of words when she had thought the same thing. Yet, she did not blame her family. Fay chose to believe that they had no idea what the bracelets would do to her. The alternative was simply not something she could consider or bear thinking about. 

"…I didn't want to hurt anybody, so I accepted them." She said, finally. 

"—Tt—it was easier to put chains on you than teach you how to control your anger." Damian could barely stand whenever his father would ground him from patrol as a negative reinforcement tool. If anyone would have even attempted to chain him in the manner Fay had been, there's no say what he would have done. Psychical punishment was a favoured teaching tool in the League, but the intention was to test a person's will when it wasn't used for punishment. What Fay's family had done to her was to push a problem away. Not a warrior, she said. Not like her family. Different. They did not accept her, so they sentenced her to an invisible cage that in his opinion, was worse than an actual one. 

Yet. 

Fay has run away from home, travelled between worlds, braved the Darien Gap, walked thousands of miles and survived Gotham. She knew she could not defend herself properly, but she had gone into a burning building to save him and a child. Fay had hunted down a group of thieves and relied on her wit and resourcefulness because she knew the bracelets would hurt her otherwise. She had concluded they were damaging her body, that there was a possibility she might die if she used her flux again but that didn't stop her from putting herself as a shield between him and the chimeras. 

"Why were you angry?" He said, carefully controlling his tone, pushing the emotions bubbling wildly in his chest. "Halloween night. You were angry. Why?" Fay may have struggled to say why she lost control before, but he had filled in the gaps himself. She had been likely bullied. It would explain much of her fearful behaviour and it was something he had already theorized about her. What she wasn't however—the type of person who purposefully sought to harm others. Even if she had, Damian would be willing to give her the benefit of doubt as to why she did it. She wasn't an assassin, though nor was she cold-blooded. 

_ Why did you thank me? _

Her cheeks reddened, and she avoided his gaze again. "I, um…." She was picking at her cuticles, drawing blood on some of her fingers. "…it wasn't fair. That---that you and—and Bag kept fighting. Even if you were injured…. you kept getting up. I----I should---I should be able to do that as well. I mean, I was raised to…." She shook her head. A few tears slid down her face. "I am not sure---but I was afraid that you—you two would die. I haven't done---anything to deserve—" 

"I have told you to banish that ridiculous notion out of your head." 

"…What?" 

"That your life does not matter." He answered in a clipped tone. "Is that what your stupid family has put in your head? That you don't matter because you're different?" 

Fay looked horrified. "No—no, of course not. My family loves me—" 

"If they did, they would have accepted you." He hissed. "They wouldn't have treated you as something different. Stop defending them---blood doesn't matter as much as you think." 

"You’re—you’re wrong.’’ Fay breathed. “…I mean, I know. That family is not always---by blood. But you’re wrong about them.’’ Her family was complicated and dysfunctional even by her world’s standards, but they did love her. In their own way, even if it manifested differently to her parents. Fay knew she would sound as if she was protecting them if she said all that, but she wasn’t naïve. Damian believed her family had rejected her and they secretly tried to kill her. Unfortunately, she could not say her family was a stranger to familicide, but she did not believe her uncles or aunts would ever hurt her. They failed to understand her at times, but she knew they cared. Her parents would have accounted for her to be taken care of if they died prematurely. They would have never allowed her to stay with the rest if they thought she was in danger. 

“I am different.’’ She muttered. “But that---that doesn’t mean they don’t care about me.’’ 

He smiled coldly. Beneath the anger and the confidence, there was something else. Pain. “Caring and wanting to kill somebody are not necessarily mutually exclusive.’’ He remarked ruefully. Fay couldn’t argue anymore. She couldn’t explain why she chose to defend her family without starting a far bigger discussion about who she is. She had already said far more than she expected or ever wanted to, as it is. 

Fay gasped when Damian’s hand pushed her head forward at the same time he leaned forward, their foreheads touching. “W-wha-what?’’ She stammered, embarrassed with his sudden gesture. Did he have to constantly push the boundaries of her personal bubble like that? Still, she didn’t pull away. 

“Don’t hide it from me.’’ He remarked simply. “Your anger. Be angry if you must.’’

She stared, uncomprehendingly, his eyes closer than she had ever seen them before. They were really pretty---a different shade from her mother’s but just as beautiful. Not for the first time, she mentally compared them to stones. 

“You will never have to hide your anger from me. I won’t judge you for it. Nor I will try to tell you to ignore it.’’ His breath fanned over her face. “My only request—’’ His  _ only  _ request? “—is that you come to me. That you tell me. When you are going to lose control. Or if you’ve lost it.’’ Fay was vaguely aware that there were new tears streaming down her face, but she was too busy processing his words to pay any attention to the wetness of her cheeks. 

“Swear to me.’’ She felt his fingers flex at the back of her head. “Swear to me that you’ll be honest. In return, I will help you.’’ 

“…. okay.’’ 

What else was she supposed to say?

Fay had run over hundreds of scenarios of the possible ways he would find out about how volatile she could be. Just as many times, she had imagined how their discussion would go. 

And just like last time when they discussed her otherworldly origins, he had completely taken her by surprise. 

. 

Later, when she was alone again, just her and Bag, she’d ask her paladin if at any point he sensed dishonesty from the boy. Fay did not like using Bag’s abilities for herself, but she had to know. Damian was the exception to the rule. 

That her paladin confirmed the boy was being honest (or at least very good at hiding his real emotions), which meant she was left floundering for words. What now? 

She wasn’t sure what was worse. 

How little it took Damian – twenty-seven days, to be exact – for her heart to be completely compromised. 

The fact that she still had no idea if they were friends at all. 

Or that she desperately hoped they were. 

The point of no return, indeed. 

.

.

.

_ 3 _ _ rd _ _ of December  _

Damian’s brow quirked at the sight of the materials she spread out on the table in the solarium. Fay had told him she grabbed supplies for her training when she was last out in the city, but he hadn’t expected to see the easel and canvas. Or the glass jars filled with water and the paint tubes she had taken out of their packaging. He also didn’t expect the drawing of the flower she had made on the canvas with a pencil. It wasn’t anything special, but she wasn’t without artistic talent. He suspected she was able to draw more beyond a flower, but that was a question to be answered later. 

It was early afternoon when he arrived at the warehouse, after getting a couple of hours sleep and training for several more. He intended for them to go to the museum that day, truth be told. There was a special exhibit taking place for the month of December, which he doubted she was even aware of. He told himself that it was because she always opened more whenever she was in a comfortable, stimulating environment like the museum. Perhaps she’ll answer his question about her night terrors, see if she’s had time to contemplate his offer. 

It wasn’t the only reason, though. 

Damian found her in the solarium, hair pinned back and strangely enough, wearing a sleeveless shirt. The marks on her arms were in full view as were the small scars that now marked her wrists. He watched her as she squeezed tubes of watercolour paint in the jars, separating the colours one from another and mixing them with water. There were only two digits or so of water, so the colours remained relatively vibrant. Red, yellow, white, green. 

Bagheera had sensed him from his place across the room but he didn’t react, clearly not wanting to interrupt Fay. Damian stopped at the threshold and watched her quietly from the side. Fay was too concentrated to pay attention to him, brows furrowed together, and her lips pressed in a thin line as she stared at the jars before her. The canvas was set to the side, across the room from where Damian had stopped. 

Fay took a deep breath then lifted her hands just as she closed her eyes. Nothing happened for a few seconds but then she started moving her hands and fingers, as if she was threading them through invisible strings. He couldn’t discern a pattern to her movements, she seemed to move them instinctually. Searching. Her marks glowed faintly, the green matching the wisps of energy forming around her hands—it looked deceptively delicate. Like magic. But he had seen how destructive that energy was with his own eyes. 

The water that had a red hue to it moved and within seconds it was trickling upwards out of the jar, just a few drops, one after another. The bubble that formed and floated in the air, its shape held together by her will could have been contained in a tablespoon. Fay tilted her body to the side, the movement of her hands and fingers manipulating the blob of coloured water to follow her. He watched, intrigued, as she brought the water against the surface of the canvas. Fay opened her eyes, brows furrowing deeper as she tried to keep the liquid within the borders of the pencil. She was trying to paint the flower, Damian thought. Unconventionally so, by manipulating water directly rather than using a brush as a medium. 

Some of the red went over the border, but the petals – semi-double, hose-in-hose- were coloured entirely now. Fay repeated the process – once, twice – painting wet on wet, but trying to use the additional layers to offer the flower tridimensionality. She was only partially successful. Fay had been able to shade the petals but not at the cost of going outside the borders again, leaving her with random streaks on the canvas. Her hands were trembling when she switched to the yellow and judging by the pinched expression on her face, she was struggling with channelling her flux properly. The yellow blob was unstable, less spherical than the previous ones and more reminiscent of a shifting amoeba. Fay gritted her teeth, her hands curving inwards, fingers splayed as if she was holding a ball. Trying to get the water to follow her will and vision for it. 

Fay let out a pained noise, her body jerking as she lost control over the water. The liquid fell prey to gravity immediately, splashing down the jars and tables. To her credit, Fay persisted and after shaking her hands, as if to get rid of the tension in them, she started moving them again. The water bubbled and gurgled in the jar, but it refused to move beyond that. The girl stepped closer, her fingers splayed and curling in a grip-like manner. 

The jar exploded, the agitated water pushing through it forcefully, glass and water flinging off the table and onto the table. Blood dripped out of Fay’s nose, her knees buckling under her weight. Damian caught her, slowing her descent but allowing her to sink to her knees. He felt a faint thrum of energy right before it dissipated along with the green from her hands and the glow of her marks. She was shaking again. 

“Da—Damian?’’ She looked at him startled, just as he pressed the handkerchief to her nose. Seriously, he had started wearing a spare on him just in case as well. 

Bagheera growled softly, rising to his feet, and approaching them, careful not to step in the shards of glass on the floor. Pinching her nose through the cloth, Fay glanced at him. “I am okay, Bag.’’ She said, before turning her gaze back on Damian. “What—you’ve been there the whole time?’’ She asked meekly, cheeks reddening. 

“Yes.’’ No point denying it. Damian’s eyes flitted to the canvas, then the table. “Interesting exercise. Very low impact compared to the way you fought the chimeras, but that requires more control, doesn’t it?’’ He met her gaze again. “Because it requires precision. A scalpel’s work compared to a hammer.’’ Fay stared at him cautiously, before nodding. 

“Yes…exactly.’’ She murmured. They both raised to their feet, him steading her by the shoulders.

“How much better was it before?’’ He asked, looking at the canvas as he guided her to sit down in one of the chairs pushed against the wall. She didn’t protest. 

Fay pursued her lips. “Better than now. It wasn’t hard painting a flower before.’’ She looked frustrated. “…I am getting tired too easily. And---and I can’t hold it. The flux I mean. It feels….’’ She looked at her hands. “Weak, still.’’ 

Damian nodded. “Have you been following the new plan?’’ He had increased her calorie intake by twenty-five percent, but perhaps more was needed. Fay looked healthier than he’s ever seen her, despite the several pounds that she had yet to make up for. She wasn’t developing muscle as quickly as she should have, so maybe he’ll adjust her cardio to balance weight work as well. 

“Yeah.’’ Fay took the handkerchief away from her nose, testing. Her nosebleed stopped, having been minor to begin with. “…I can’t believe how easily I get tired.’’ She mumbled. “I used---I used to spend hours in the jungle without getting tired. Right, Bag?’’ The paladin huffed, nodding his head curtly in assent. 

Yes, well. The bracelets have done a number on her. But her reflexes were far better than they’ve been. Fay was faster too. Damian wouldn’t say he had difficulty dragging her into the bathroom, but that fight-or-flight state he had found her in, it had been like trying to tame a wild animal. A dangerous one that was unhindered by fear and so had no qualms about trying to break his arm when he tried to snap her out of it. Tried being the operative word. 

Fay got up. “I want to try again.’’ 

“No.’’ He shook his head, although he was curious to see more. “You risk undoing your recovery. We need to change your plan. You are putting on weight but not developing muscle mass properly. Besides the jungle, was there any psychical training you received?’’ She must have if she knew how to defend herself. 

“Um, yeah. But it was generally based around the use of my flux.’’ She mentioned. It wasn’t not true. 

“Hn. That won’t be a problem. I have some ideas about what other exercises you could incorporate.''

Fay was very worried about the way he was smirking. 

Even more so, now that she knew how he was raised. 


	21. Of special days, flying and music

" _Music is a moral law._

_It gives a soul to the Universe, wings to the mind, flight to the imagination, a charm to sadness, gaiety, and life to everything._

_It is the essence of order and leads to all that is good and just and beautiful."_

\- Plato

.

.

.

Her mother had told her about Christmas when she was younger. That it was an annual winter festivity celebrating a religious figure, not unlike Maysoon celebrated the births or achievements of prolific individuals. It was so much more than that, her mother used to say. One of the most fascinating and beautiful traditions she has come across in that world, so popular that it is celebrated by billions of people. Fay had some information on the religion in which Christmas is rooted, but it was not until living in that world that she fully realized just how much importance it held to the people there.

Naturally, she did what she always did when she did not have information. Reading. Research. Asking questions, now that she had a walking encyclopaedia in the shape of a boy. A grumpy one, who is not nearly as fascinated by Christmas as she is, so it proves rather difficult getting a better understanding of the 'Christmas spirit' from him. No matter. In the first week of December, when she ends up visiting the Wayne Manor, Fay finds plenty of answers in Alfred and Dick, who are amused by the fact that she has a journal full of unanswered questions.

Damian had injured himself the day before. Fay did not have the details, but it had been Dick to come to visit her and ask her if she wanted to go see Damian for once rather than the other way around. She had a feeling it was an excuse so he could talk to her, although unlike Damian, Dick did not pry as much. He smiled easier, too, his friendliness infectious, so Fay found herself at ease around him. They ended up making a detour through Gotham and got doughnuts ( _really_ good dougnuts).

Fay had thought Halloween and Thanksgiving had sent people in a frenzy in celebrating them, but those two events had nothing on Christmas. Anywhere she looked she was assaulted by something to do with Christmas. Her mother had mentioned she had felt taken back as wellby the celebration and how much effort people put in it across the world. What an understatement. She ended up filling half a journal with her notes and observations, regularly asking Dick for clarification. By the time they arrived at Wayne Manor, Fay had more questions than answers, and she had completely lost track of what she knew and what she did not. There was _so_ much in terms of customs, rituals, folklore, and Fay wanted to know _everything._

Santa Clause. Nativity. Christmas lights. Christmas trees. Christmas discounts. Mistletoe. Christmas food. Gift giving. Why did Santa Clause only have eight reindeers? Why reindeers in the first place? And if he is capable of such potent magic that he can bend time and space to his will, why travel in that manner? How is coal such a lousy present when there are far scarier punishments a naughty child could receive? Why does one country eat fried chicken for Christmas when it is a regular, if not a daily dish for others? How is an elf on a shelf scary? Rather disrespectful to their species if you asked her. 

Fay resigned herself to the idea that she will not get all her answers that day or even that Christmas. But she was glad she had the opportunity to experience that time of the year. 

December, however, had the potential to become a Bad Month. Or a month full of Bad Days, anyway.

Fay was bound to be thinking about her family very often between all the music, cheer and family-based traditions that she kept witnessing.

And thus, she was bound to think what she could not have. Starting with the thought of how she would have loved to share all new experiences with her parents and Titoh.

December was going to be a painful month.

.

.

.

_7 th of December_

It is her birthday. The second one since her parents died.

It was not necessarily a Bad Day. The nightmares were not worse than usual the night before. Fay did not wake up feeling more anxious than usual or on the precipice of a panic attack.

Fay did not really feel anything out of ordinary, truth be told. She would lie if she said that, in the past, she has not looked forward to receiving gifts on her 'special day' or that she had not basked in the attention she received. However, her birthdays' highlights were always the way her family and family’s friends and closest allies would come together. The way her father would organize a unique scavenger hunt, the way her mother would sing her favourite melodies. The way her godfather would take her on a memorable trip or teach her something new or tell her stories. How on that day, her parents were hers and hers alone, away from any responsibilities that they had at any other time of the year.

They were also the days Fay would be reminded of who she was, of what was expected of her, but she had plenty to comfort herself with so she hadn’t paid much attention to that. If she had known that her birthday, two years earlier, was the last she would experience such joy, Fay would have done more to ensure her final moments with her family were enjoyed to the fullest. Then again, if she had known what would take place weeks later, Fay would have done everything in her power to stop it. To warn everyone, at least.

(Not that she has not researched time travel.)

Her first birthday after her parent's death had felt like a punishment, not a celebration. The presents, the attention, her family overcompensating in their attempt to cover the hole that all the loss have carved in her heart. Fay appreciated their effort. She really did. But she had also felt angry. That they thought she would ever want to celebrate her birthday again, that they used 'your parents would have wanted this’ card. Maybe that is when the anger started developing first. She was not sure. But her birthday a year earlier had been one of the first instances in which she acknowledged she was furious.

The people who understood her the most were gone. Nothing was good enough. No one was good enough to take their place, as awful as that sounded.

So, that day, on her birthday, Fay felt nothing out of the ordinary. She did not feel blessed, she did not feel excited, she did not want presents or wishes of health and prosperity.

It was easier than last time. Because in that world, she was not the same Fay. _Fay Kipling_ did not have to worry or hide from those wanting to celebrate her day. She never understood that part. If it's _her_ day, why can't she be the one to choose how it should go by? Why was it wrong to just treat it as any other day? What was another year, really for her?

(Everything. And nothing.).

Fay woke up early. Damian had not come by in two days, and she had not seen him in three, not since she visited Wayne Manor. He was caught up in a new case, even though his injury hadn’t fully healed. So, that day, Fay agreed to help Dana for several hours, travelling with a few other volunteers in delivering 'care packages' in more impoverished neighbourhoods. She and Bag were not alone in their journey as they paired up with Robby, taking one apartment block at a time, going back and forth between the residences and the vans Mack and other volunteers were driving. Over three hundred families were scheduled for a visit that day.

In her attempts to distract herself, Fay had ended up doing far more than just delivering packages. She ended up taking out the trash bags for the elderly couple on the third floor, helped tidy the apartment of another resident on the seventh floor as they have been experiencing difficulties doing so following an incident that left them temporarily bed-bound. Fay also ended up walking the small yet vivacious dog of a frazzled young mother while Robby fixed her kitchen sink. The dog turned out to be a demon in disguise. As soon as he managed to release himself out of his leash, he had forced Fay to chase him around for over twenty minutes. 

Bagheera would have helped, had not he been busy sulking that he had to wear a cap and vest to tone down his wolfish appearance. A couple of weeks earlier, Damian had smugly suggested they should just shave him entirely, which naturally led to a fight between boy and beast. Fay had walked away, not wanting to interfere in their destructive-yet-not-entirely-serious fight. Most of the furniture in the living area had been ruined, but the perks of being friends-not-friends with a billionaire were that everything had been replaced within twenty-four hours.

Shortly after lunch, Fay decided to challenge her newfound psychical fitness by braving the urban landscape's obstacles in self-imposed timed errands for Dana. It had felt so _damn_ good. It was almost like being back in the jungle, except instead of giants made of wood and vines, there were ones made of concrete and bricks and glass.

Vaulting, jumping, scaling, rolling, running. A healthier body allowed instincts and reflexes to take over, and her mind cleared. She felt _free_. Unencumbered. There was power in moving like that, and Fay had not realized how much she missed it, how much its loss had affected her until that moment.

In retrospect, she did get ahead of herself but a reckless thought had rooted in her mind.

What if, now that she is better, she could fly again?

What if something has changed because she too, has changed? Because she feels different than she did when she was in Maysoon.

What if she could once again be as free as a bird?

Fay often avoided thinking about flying just as she did about her parents, which was an easier feat in that world, seeing as there were no constant reminders (or people asking about it almost every damn day).

They were near the Soul Bowl, traversing from building to building. Low to mid-rise, they should not have been that much of a challenge, except she was drenched in sweat and out of breath. Fay ignored all that – stupidly so – and sprinted towards the end of the building she was on, with an unwarranted amount of confidence in thinking she will make it on the next one, despite the yawning gap between them. She could fly, she told herself. Whatever was broken in her that made flying an impossibility would finally mend, and she would find herself soaring through the air. How could she be wrong about it when she could feel it in her every fibre of being? That sense of anticipation, the lightness in her stomach.

Bagheera, to his credit, had projected his concern once he realized what her intention was but she didn’t stop.

They both jumped at the same time. Bagheera quickly made the jump over – it had to have been at least forty feet – while she…. ended up having a rather ungraceful and painful fall. There had been a moment, seconds at most when Fay really did feel like she could fly. She was up in the air, light as a feather and nothing below her feet. Fay was not high enough to have a panoramic view of the city, but she felt higher than most buildings nearby for a brief moment.

 _She did make it_ on the other side.

However, her joy was abruptly cut off when she realized she will not land properly – not a situation she has not been in before, truth be told –, slamming against the side of the building, hands instinctively grabbing onto the edge. It was a brief hold. Her hands slipped, and gravity pulled her down. Out of reflex, her hands flailed, trying to grab onto something – anything – that would stop her descend to the ground. The building was four floors high, and Fay did not think it would kill her, but her paladin would undoubtedly have to peel her broken body off the floor.

Lucky her, the air conditioner units that littered that side of the building had acted like a dampener. She lost count on how many she tried to grapple on, the constant drizzle turning the plastic into a slippery surface. Her descent slowed even as her body jostled all the way down before Fay finally ended inside a…. trash bin? She could swear that she had not been there before.

Fay coughed, then tried to take a few deep breaths in, but it made her body ache harder and her chest rattle. Bagheera jumped down from the roof onto the fire staircase, skipping two levels at a time so he could join her as soon as possible. He kept his distance, allowing her to pull herself on her feet, as slow as she did, his concern barely suppressed.

Her entire right shoulder ached, having landed at an odd angle on top of the trolley, and she could pinpoint the areas on her body where bruises were forming rapidly. Her right hand felt tender, _I must’ve sprained it_ , and there was a superficial cut at the back of her head, enough to draw blood but not enough to warrant stitches. Probably. When she was finally up, legs shaking and her lunch threatening to leave the way it came down, Fay looked around blearily, in search for her backpack. Lord, her head felt like a drum, a beating sensation circling her head.

Fay did not become aware of the tall figure that appeared a few hundred behind her until she noticed Bagheera's soundless snarl and fur rising, his eyes moving past her.

"Looking for this?" The deep voice drawled, and she frowned, tensing up. Fay turned around and saw a man---tall, lean. Clad in a dark outfit, except for his shoes' red soles and the brown leather jacket. His dark hair was tousled, and despite the shadows casting over his figure, Fay could see that his eyes were blue. He stepped closer, looking unfazed by the wolf-like creature growling lowly at him. Warningly. He lifted one dark gloved hand, her backpack hanging from it by one of the straps. Fay did not move, glancing at the bag then at him apprehensively. Her instincts told her he was dangerous and Bagheera agreed with her, his emotions muted, reserved only for her. 

The man looked amused. "You're the girl who found George Sander's USB key." His head cocked slightly to the side. "You're baby bat's Rapunzel." His eyes blue eyes fitted Bagheera, who had stepped close to her side. "And that must be the big bad wolf."

Fay blinked, wondering if the man had all his mental faculties intact as she tried to make sense of his words.

Wait. Baby…bat? Was he referring to Batman? …. No. That did not make sense.

Damian. Was he referring to Damian? That did not make sense either. Damian was Robin. He did not even wear the Bat symbol, as far as she knew. 

Yet a funny - and utterly inappropriate image for that situation – was conjured by her mind. An angry little bat with green eyes.

Fay must have hit her head harder than she thought.

"…bat?" She repeated. "I am sorry," Best to stay polite. "But, um, who are you? And…how do you know me?"

He stepped closer, his free hand raising in a placating manner towards her paladin and then chucked her backpack. She caught it clumsily with her uninjured hand. "…no one important." His eyes fell to her wrist, which she kept pressed against her chest, trying to keep it elevated. Then he glanced up the building, looking as if he assessed the height she fell from.

He looked so…nonchalant about the entire situation.

"That's a pretty nasty fall." He whistled. "Still, nice reflexes. You could have broken your neck or spine."

"…. Th-thank you?"

He pulled out a packet of cigarettes, and she watched, bewildered as he calmly took out one of the tobacco white sticks and then brought the orange part between his lips. Then he swiftly flicked a lighter open – _when did he even move to get that?_ \- and lit up the cigarette. "You should get that looked at, kid." He said simply. Fay nodded because she was not sure how else to react.

Bagheera grabbed her by the edge of her raincoat and tugged her away from the man. Fay followed her paladin's lead, but before they exited the alley, she glanced over her shoulder.

There was nobody there. The man had disappeared entirely.

Fay did not go to the Soul Bowl in the end, as she had promised to have lunch with Dana. Instead, she texted the woman and let her know she was heading home as she felt a bit unwell. Twenty minutes later, a car came to pick them up a mile or so from where she had fallen. It was not until they were inside that she managed to shake off the feeling someone watched them. 

Damian was not going to be happy.

.

_I am on my way._

Damian clicked his teeth. When he had noticed the red dot speed up on the map, he had figured out she must have been running, seeing as she did not stick to the streets only. His first instinct was to assume she was being chased, but then she stopped at a print shop where she stayed at for eleven minutes before resuming running back to where she came from. The Soul Bowl. So, she was running errands for Mercher and challenging her psychically in the process.

He would give her credit for her determination, but Fay had a penchant for getting herself in trouble, and Gotham was a fertile ground for it.

Then the dot stopped suddenly. He waited. Several minutes forward, she did not move again, so he texted her. Fay did not answer. But she did start moving again, eventually, slower than before and ultimately responded, telling him she was on her way. Fay called the private car hire company that he had put at her service (and was owned by Wayne Industries). Within forty-five minutes – traffic issues, he had deduced by the delayed lines of the vehicle on his navigator – Fay was dropped off in the Gotham neighbourhood on that side of the river, a little over four miles away from the warehouse, built on the edge of the forest that characterized that side of the county.

The dot had started moving faster after that, so she was either running again or riding on Bagheera. Given it took her less than fifteen minutes to get there, it was the latter. Damian was waiting for her by the entrance, ready to point out how silly it was. She insisted on roaming around in the cold, wet weather on foot all the time when she had the luxury of using a personal driver. If she admitted to it, maybe he will take her to that Christmas exhibit, finally seeing as they did not get a chance yet.

Except, his words died in his mouth as soon as she stepped through the door. That she was drenched, from head to toe, was no surprise. The constant drizzle of that morning had mutated into a pelting rain in the last hour or so. With the frigid temperatures at night, recently going below zero, frost had started to settle in the wet, dry ground, and he had increased the power of the heat radiators in the warehouse, seeing as Fay did not do it. She could be a proud thing, not wanting to admit she had no idea how.

Fay was limping, face pinched in pain. Her right wrist was pressed against her chest; it looked swollen. There was a bruise forming on her left cheekbone as well, and her gaze was slightly unfocused.

"What the hell happened?" He nothing short of growled, his temper flaring immediately.

"Um…. I fell off a building." There was something unfortunate on her expression that day, her eyes rimmed red. Was it a Bad Day? If so, why didn't she tell him?

"You fell off a building." He repeated tightly. She had been using them as an obstacle course, as he suspected, then.

Fay looked down, looking not as much ashamed or guilty as she did disappointed. There was anger, too, faintly so etched on her features.

Damian sighed. "Get changed, and I will have a look at your hand."

"That's ---actually, there's another wound," Fay muttered, turning slightly to the side and pulling down her hood. Her hair was damp, but a spot in the parietal zone looked red: a small thin line, no longer than three inches at most.

Idiot.

.

One warm shower and fresh, dry attire later, Fay was sitting cross-legged on her bed with Damian behind her as he disinfected the wound, then applied a plastic bag filled with ice. She was far too sore to keep her uninjured hand there, but she had not needed to ask for him to do that. Her right hand had been bandaged and was resting atop of a pillow on her lap, another bag of ice wrapped in a cloth and pressed against it. The tenderness had faltered after she showered and took a few anti-inflammatory pills, but she was bruised in at least seven different places across her body. Hopefully, she will heal as fast as she is supposed to.

Damian had barely talked to her except to chastise her and command her to sit down so he could look at her injuries. Fay could feel his irritation even if she could not see his face, nor was he an empath like Bagheera. Pip had settled near them, noisily munching on a bone she had never seen before but suspected it had been brought over by Damian. She never saw him doing it, but he always brought treats for everyone. A few times, she had caught Bagheera with apples as well, but she never asked, knowing the two would have denied it ferociously. It was sweet, though.

Her paladin had stayed on the floor, keeping close to the radiator, playing with Hector and Nada using him as a pillow.

"What exactly made you think it would be a good idea to jump from a building in your current state?" Damian asked gruffly, close enough that she could feel his knees against her back. She was not bothered by his proximity as she once would have been. Fay admitted to him that she had gotten ahead of herself because she did feel better than she had in months. She knows it was reckless, but how could she deny herself that?

"If the running exercises on the property are not sufficient, we can amend them." Right. Like he has amended her psychical training. Fay now had at least three hours of exercise each day, with only one hour of cardio. The others were spent doing strength exercises that felt – shamefully so – more taxing than they should be. He did not supervise her all the time, to her relief, because whenever he did, the session was awkward, and she would end up behaving in the clumsiest of manner. Fay has never dealt well with being watched by others.

"It's not that." She mumbled. "I didn't…plan it. I just felt like—doing it at the moment." Today was her birthday. And she could not fly anymore, still. The entire day there has been a crushing feeling in her chest, like an invisible weight pressing down on her. Running had been the only thing that alleviated that, but she had deluded herself in thinking she had managed to overcome it.

It was psychological, the healers had told her. The impediment stopping her from flying. Psychically, there was nothing wrong with her. Then again, her ability to fly had always been unique---an ability she had valued incredibly much because it made her stand out from her parents. She may not have mastered flying within a battle context, but she had been good at it. As easy as breathing.

Fay had not talked about how losing that ability made her feel to anyone. She did not even think it would be possible to ever stop flying, let alone that it would take her so long to recover. Her family had tried to comfort her by saying that she will eventually regain it _'when she was better’_. Fay did not think they believed that, so she had not felt consoled byit. Titoh had felt sorry too, but he never understood what it felt like---being a bird with broken wings.

Damian would not either, but the words tumbled out of her mouth, either way, now that the crushing weight was back.

"I used to…be able to fly." She drew in a shaky breath. "That's why my mother named ne Fay. Because---Because I was able to fly at an early." Before she could walk, actually.

Fay could not tell what Damian’s reaction was. It was best that way. She found it easier to talk if she did not have to look at him.

"What changed?" He asked, shifting the bag of ice away from her head. She did not turn around, and he did not make her.

Fay bit the inside of her cheek, her mouth doing a funny thing as she tried to control her emotions "…I don't know." She swallowed against the tight vice of emotions wrapping itself around her throat. "Nobody does. It is not an ability…that many have. At least not as early as I did. The healers said…" That she is broken. Not to her face, but to her uncle. She had heard them anyway. Their expressions also betrayed their thoughts at times. "…that it was in my mind. Because of what happened."

"You've attempted to fly today." He concluded. "Have you tested it out before?"

Fay nodded curtly. "…it doesn't work. I---I do not understand why." A few tears slid down her face. She saw Bagheera tilt his head in her direction, but she did not meet his gaze. "It was always so…easy. I did not have to think about it most of the time. I did not even think it was possible. I thought maybe…. something changed. I, um…. I was wrong." She licked her chapped lips, mouth feeling parched. "I did feel…faster than usual. And it was easier to move around."

Damian did not respond immediately after, but she had a feeling he was scrutinizing her even if he could not see her face.

"I could fly once." Her heart jumped. "Temporarily so, unfortunately." Was he tugging at her hair? It felt like it. Fay did not pay much attention to it, taken back by his confession. "I was not born with it, but I may have as well been. It was never an ability I had necessarily coveted as there are plenty of ways to take flight, to battle in the air. It was a…liberating experience, being able to experience freedom without any external support. Without needing to rely on anything but the mental command to do so." He paused, then much quieter, he added, "There’s power in that, not just freedom."

He…. understood?

 _Him_? Out of all people.

It was always him, though, wasn't it? The one who saw through her.

Fay released her breath, realizing she had been holding it. She wanted to ask how come he had the temporary ability of flight or what were the other ones as he implied there had been more than one. But for the time being, it did not matter. Because she had admitted to something she had not dared express out loud to anyone in months, and he had not treated her condescendingly or with pity. He did not blame her, either. What is more, is…. that he understood what she felt. Some of the weight on her chest was lifted, and she breathed deeply, feeling uncharacteristic…pleased.

"After _what_ happened." He repeated her words. "…. will you tell me about it?"

Right. He did ask her to consider it, days earlier after her night terror, but he had not insisted afterwards. Damian was perfectly capable of behaving in a domineering, borderline bullish manner. Instead, he had given her the space to mull over his implicit offer to open up about the source of her nightmares. Fay had been torn between hoping he will not bring it up again and wanting to tell him. Lately, she has been battling the desire to tell him more and more about what she kept hidden in her heart. What a dangerous feeling.

"…. I do not remember much." She breathed. It was rather anticlimactic how easily the words came pouring out. That wretched sense of hope had reached unprecedented highs. "My memories are… there's something wrong with them. I can't ---remember the order of…how things took place or…um, the ending. I think I am missing things too." Fay shifted the bag of ice away from her hand and flexed her fingers. It felt better.

"Maysoon was attacked." She said, after a moment of silence. "Almost…. two years ago. It was…. unexpected. And---and…. _insane_." Because she had no other word for it. It still did not make sense to her what happened. "Maysoon is a fortress. One of the…. safest places I can think of." Or was, anyway. "It is a sanctuary and um, a—a symbol of peace. It was not always like that, but…. I guess that it is why it had became one. Because it is proof that the world…can change. For the better." Her chin trembled, and she stopped.

Another tug on her hair. The strands reached past her shoulders now, but they were not long enough to be within his reach. Unless he wanted to. He was not pushing her, though. The gesture felt more encouraging than anything, bringing a sort of levity to the entire discussion.

"…People died." Understatement of the year. " _Thousands_." She fidgeted with the ice cubes through the plastic, breaking some of them now that they are half-melted. "I remember…parts of it. And they are all…" She is not sure if there is a word fit to encompass the horror she had felt that night. In any of the languages she knows. "…none of it makes sense." She said instead. "I am not sure…what was real and what wasn’t. It is…worse when I have dreams about it. Some of them seem too…. horrible to be true, but um, that does not mean they did not happen."

"Who perpetrated the attack?"

Fay scoffed, surprising both of themselves at the gesture. "Nobody…knows. They all just—blame one another. Many agree that it was…. the Vontagor Empire. Because they are historically…violent. And um, they openly supported the old regimes. But---um, there is no proof they did so. There is—there is a lot of tension right now. Or was when I left anyway." Fay had left a letter for her family in which she explained that she chose to leave, afraid wild assumptions might be made if she disappeared suddenly. The seal and code she used should have been enough to let her uncle know it was a genuine message and that she had not been kidnapped. 

"Your parents died that night."

"…yes."

"Do you remember how?" He asked quietly.

An invisible knife twisted itself in her heart. "…no. Sometimes---I think I do. But, um, no." Fay had not dared look at their bodies during the ceremony that took place after. She had not been present there, mentally speaking, so her memory of it was fuzzy, as well. She rarely ever visited the mausoleum, finding it unbearable. Fay had spent many months in denial, as some had said and she still had not entirely accepted that they were dead. How could anyone, considering the type of people they have been? In her opinion, it was a great offence accepting it so easily.

Maybe that is precisely when her anger had started. The moment the grief had replaced the nothingness, and she had to watch and hear people move on.

"Can you recall what you were dreaming of last time? You were speaking in a language, presumably your native one." He did not tell her that he found it intriguing how it sounded when she spoke in that language. When she spoke in English her accent was light, but it could not be attributed to any single one in that world. When she was distraught, she tended to communicate faster and cut her words shorter. Her broken sentences had to be partly due to English not being her native language, but when she was calm or focused, Fay was rather eloquent. Reading as much as she did had endowed her with an impressive vocabulary given she was not of that world. Her fluency was as good as any other person from that world, who may have learned English as a second language since they were young. After that many months there, she had even started to adopt an American accent when pronouncing certain words.

"Oh. Yeah. It would have been, I guess." She reached to wipe at her cheeks. Fay no longer felt like crying. She shifted slightly, her legs starting to go numb, and she turned around to lean on the pillows pressed against the headboard. It was not comfortable, though, because her back was badly bruised, so she found herself locking up, not sure how to sit best.

"Lie down. You need to keep your body straight." He instructed, and she found herself doing just that, a pillow tucked under her head. Fay was ready to protest because she felt too vulnerable in that position, but Damian surprised her – again – by adopting a similar stance next to her. In that manner, they were both staring at the ceiling above them, shoulders barely brushing. A stabbing pain travelled from her hips up to her spine and shoulders, but it faltered, and soon, Fay relaxed. 

The silence was strange but not unwelcomed.

"I dreamt of my mother." She murmured. "I was…trying to run to her, but um, there were…people stopping me. They were dead. I had---I had no voice and…. I could not fight them."

He made a sound at the back of his throat. "Explains why you tried to take my head off several times." The way Damian was taking everything she told him in stride made her lips twitch. There was an indescribable feeling in her chest, a sense of surrealism that the boy with green eyes that had been terrorizing her thoughts for weeks was the same one laying down next to her. The same one she was spilling her secrets to. And she wasn’t regretting it.

No point of return, huh.

"Damian?"

"Hn."

"…they don't go away, do they? The nightmares."

"No." He said simply. Damian was not going to sugar coat it. "You just learn to live with them."

"My…father used to say that," Fay murmured. "…I guess I haven't learned how."

Damian snorted. "And what exactly do you think you have been doing until now?"

Fay blinked, her head turning towards him even if it made the small wound brush uncomfortably against the pillow. "…What?"

He had closed his eyes, hands intertwined over his abdomen. "You said you are struggling with facing your fears, overcoming your pain. That you tried and failed. That you are too weak to try again." He paused, barely giving her enough time to remember when she told him such things. "But you have only given up on yourself."

"I am…not sure I understand."

She swore he rolled his eyes even when he kept them closed.

"You live with your nightmares and anxiety every day. It is crippling you but only because you allow it. Because you want and think you deserve the punishment for it. You feel guilty about your parent's death and that you are alive when others have died. However, you are still here, are you not? You may not think you deserve to be here, but you still wish to make a difference for others." Lids parted open halfway and tilting his head slightly towards her, green eyes met hers. His expression was unreadable, but his tone nonetheless remained confident.

Fay felt dizzy even though she was lying down. Was he saying…what she thought he was? Was that even possible?

"In this world alone, you have adapted to a set of circumstances and challenges that others far more knowledgeable would have not survived. The past several weeks, you have been focusing on improving your health, and you have been training your use of the flux extensively, even if it has caused you side effects. Today alone, you have risked breaking your neck to test your limits." He raised a brow. "What do you think that says about you?"

She stared, speechless.

"This sense of guilt is not of your own making only, is it?"

Fay's breath felt ragged. She could not speak, but her silence was an answer again.

"That is where your failure lies." He said firmly. "You are giving power to the imbeciles, including your family for thinking that your anger is something that should be ignored."

It wasn’t exactly like that.

"But—but---I---"

"Would you doubt my assessment?" He interrupted, looking at her challengingly. "Given what I've told you---about who I was raised to be---do you think I would assess your character recklessly?" Damian Wayne was raised to be an assassin. He was born and bred to be a warrior. Like her, but not like her at the same time. Because he was successful at it. He excelled. If he had been in her world, Fay suspected he would have an easier time overcoming the trials she had to face.

Yet there he was. Telling her those things.

What exactly was he saying?

"You are perfectly capable of standing up on your own two feet, even with that ridiculous amount of shame you chose to carry. Acknowledging your pain and anger is what has made you fight the chimeras despite the consequences it would have brought." He turned his head away from her, looking back at the ceiling. "So, why do you keep insisting on seeing them as a negative force?"

"…Because it—it also made me fail. The pain. And the…anger too."

"In your world, you have." Her heart skipped a breath.

Fay redirected her eyes to the ceiling, the desire to cry coming back full force.

"What…. if you are wrong?"

"—Tt—I am not wrong." He hissed scandalized. "My data doesn't lie."

And left it at that.

Silence enveloped them as Fay tried to process his words. If she started crying again as she was doing so, he pretended he did not notice.

Today was her birthday.

Damian had no idea; it would not have been possible for him to know. Fay Kipling's date of birth was in summer, and she never had it changed because she had not cared to do so. But in that harsh assessment of his, he had managed to give her so much more than she would have expected. Something no one had been able to do until now, not with that level of conviction.

Without explicitly saying it, Damian had told she was strong. Not in the way he is or how a warrior should be. 

Not once he considered her broken or hopeless.

_Thank you._

.

Fay fell asleep that afternoon. When she woke up near midnight, Damian was gone, likely out on patrol. She had completely forgotten to tell him about the strange man in the alleyway.

As it turns out, they did know each other. Because the next day, at the crack of dawn, Damian had rudely woken her up, shaking her with such urgency that it made her wonder if the warehouse was on fire. Still dressed in his Robin outfit, he interrogated her on what the man said and did, reminding her of how Dana acted whenever she was worried. Fay offered him as much detail as she could, but there was barely any given how brief her encounter had been with the man.

Then Damian tutted and told her that she needs to be more careful. To let him know if it happens again.

"But, um, you know him?" She asked, feeling drowsy still. "He knew about the USB key."

Damian scoffed as he peeled his mask away from his face. "I would not call him an ally, but he can be useful." Then he looked at her dead in the eye. "He's dangerous."

So is he. And yet, there they are.

Fay stopped him right before he exited her room, feeling a sliver of mischief. "Are you…baby bat?" Since he woke her up, and all that.

The boy froze. His hand twitched by his side. " _Excuse me?"_ Her lips twitched. Bagheera chortled loudly, his amusement projecting strong enough to reach them both even if he was standing a few feet away. "The man said I must be…baby bat's Rapunzel." She pursued her lips. "What does that mean?"

The darkness of the room masked Damian’s expression. But the paladin still felt the boy's emotions very clearly. He could feel the beast gloating. Perhaps he _will_ shave Bagheera after all.

"Nothing." He said through gritted teeth. "He's insane. Do not pay any mind to his babbling." With that, he walked out of the room.

Stormed, really.

Fay glanced at her paladin. "Maybe I should research this Rapunzel, hm, Bag?" If he could have, her paladin would have smiled widely.Fay ended up spending a couple of hours researching the Brothers Grimm – ordering their entire collection of stories in the process – and the fairy tale of Rapunzel. She ended up reading the plot out loud to her paladin.

She giggled louder than she should have.

Because the next day, Damian added two hours to her training and by the time they were done, she could barely walk.

Tyrant.

.

.

.

_12 th of December _

On her next Bad Day, Damian gave her music back. Metaphorically speaking, of course. Music has always been within her reach.

Two days earlier, they had gone to the Science Museum to the new art exhibit. It was centred on winter wildlife, and Fay had enjoyed it tremendously, especially since they have gone after hours so it was quiet. On their way back to the warehouse, Fay had watched a group of people stand in a nearby plaza, singing carols despite the cold weather. The songs were beautiful. She had recognized one of them.

 _Silent Night._ Fay did not know that it was a song specific to that celebration, only that it was one of the many songs her mother had heard during her travels to that world. But that song had been sung to her many times, growing up. A different version, perhaps but indubitably the same melody. Fay had not cried, as she expected she would, but she did spend the entire car ride back silent. At the warehouse, Damian ultimately asked her if she recognized it, deducing one of her parents must have passed their knowledge of it too.

Clearly making a habit out of it, Fay opened up to him. Not entirely because there were still things she could not talk about, but she did tell him of her mother's adoration for music. How incredible her voice was and how much she loved to sing. Her mother had loved the music of that world regardless of how outlandish it may have come across to others. Fay had records that her mother had collected, still.

Classical music. Blues. Jazz. Rock. Such strange names, but what fascinating, incredible art they all represented.

After her mother's death, music became a taboo of sorts. Her family did not speak of it, and they rarely listened to music. They have never loved it in the manner her mother did, and even less so 'outsider' music. Her father was not a singer, but he could play a wide range of instruments, including the piano. Fay, herself, had never inherited the talent despite both of her parent's affinity for music. That she found it hard to listen to music after they did was implicit. Damian had not reacted in any particular manner, just nodding and then walking away.

Talking about her mother in such detail had made Fay feel nostalgic for the days to come, and she found herself in an incredibly low mood. Not the worst Bad Day she had, but she had struggled to get out of bed. To eat. And she had obsessively thought about how she will never hear her mother's voice again if she never made it back to Maysoon.

For the first time in months, Fay wishes she had that access even if she did not dare to listen to those records before when she had.

Around midday, when she got up to take a painkiller for her headache, Fay found a rectangular, white device on her nightstand, with two long strings attached to it. Earphones. She recognized the device's meaning even if she had no name for it, and after fiddling with it for a few minutes, noise had started playing in the earphones. Shakily, heart beating a mile a minute, she had plugged the tiny buds in her ears.

Music.

It used to permeate her life before. She never inherited the talent for it, but oh, how her mother would sing. How she would move around, barefoot, and wild and unashamed. How her father could play with such ease that she always admired and envied simultaneously. Music had felt _powerful_ then. Magnificent and enrapturing. It was love and safety and laughter and the promise for adventure. She could have eaten it and drunk it and bathed in it.

It was everything.

Then the world went silent, a silence so deafening that it made her wonder if that was just another form of torture. It had to be. There were records of her parents' music, but she could not even bear to look, let alone play them. The darkness would eat it all away, anyway. Music was not forbidden in her household, but it did become a taboo. Not all music per se, just the one that belonged to them. However, it was tough listening to other music when theirs had done such an excellent job at speaking to the hearts of so many.

The healers did not attempt to use music to soothe her, her uncle did not even want to speak about it, and Fay had considered herself better without it. There were enough reminders as it was.

The curiosity resurfaced after she arrived in that world. There were so many other types of music that her mother had not told her about, or perhaps she had not been aware of herself. Like the songs Mack sometimes listened to in the kitchen. Country music, he called it. Dana preferred the radio while driving, but Robby would immediately change it to his personalized playlist the moment he would get in the car. 'Hip-hop', he called it. R and something else, was another type, or something like that.

How exciting that music was to her ears. But she would only manage to listen to a few songs before her mind would wander off, inevitably thinking about what her mother would say if she heard it. She would probably like it. Would she dance to it? Definitely. Would her father enjoy it? Maybe. He would have encouraged her mother all the same. Would Titoh? Yes, he would too. Especially given he did have a talent for music.

Her father would have liked the music that played in her ears at that moment. Classical, soothing. Violins and pianos and cellos. Slow tempos and regular rhythms, low pitches, and tranquil melodies. When she closed her eyes, she could see him stand beside her in front of the piano, his long fingers moving over the keys in a dizzying manner. She could never join in playing, but just leaning against his solid frame, inhaling his scent, and listening to the rich tunes, had been enough. The world around them disappeared entirely in those moments. 

The nightmares did not magically go away that night.

But her anxiety faltered, and her heartbeat slowed, and when she next dreamt of dead bodies and blood-curdling screams and red skies, they were no longer as loud. The music was there, grounding her, enveloping her in an imaginary shield---casting a protective shell made of musical notes - and she dreamt of being back in her mother's botanic garden.

In those dreams, Fay was flying again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One more chapter after this, before we get to meet Daphne Barlow, folks! Thank you all for reading so far and I hope you've enjoyed the latest chapters. As I move forward, more and more characters' perspective will be introduced but I have wanted to take my time with building Damian and Fay's bond.


	22. Of chance encounters, presents and inspiration

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta-Reader: AegyoButPsycho

_ "To be inspired is great,  _

_ But to inspire is an honour."  _

\- Stacey T. Hunt

.

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_ 15th of December  _

Cora Montgomery was not like most children that attended Gotham Academy. For one, her family was not wealthy, as in, not at all. Her mother, Olivia Montgomery, died when she was very young because of cancer. Cora did not remember her very well, but pictures informed her that she took after her mother in looks. The curly, blond hair and pale complexion. It was from her father that she received her blue eyes, however. 

Clive Montgomery had raised her alone since she was four years old, and if you asked Cora, she would have said he is a good father. 

Except that sometimes – most times – he is hopeless. Clive lost his job not long after her mother's death, and it had been only a matter of time before their savings were gone, and they were up to their necks in debt. They moved from their lovely house in Bludhaven to a much smaller one in central Gotham. Their time there did not last long, seeing as they fell behind on their rent. They slept in the car for a while. Her father always spent every penny he had to make sure Cora could still attend school, even if sometimes her clothes were not always clean, and she rarely ever had the materials she needed. 

But he could not hold down a steady job, and his reliance on alcohol had intensified. He was a good father, however. He never beat her. He never yelled at her. Clive worked odd jobs, some less pleasant than others, so they could ultimately have a roof above their heads and food on the table. 

A year earlier, her father had finally managed to secure a job – it was a simple and modestly paid role. A permanent contract, with benefits included. Best job he has had in years, according to her own father's words. For a cleaning company that was used primarily by Gotham Academy. Cora only attended because of a scholarship that, unfortunately, was not always enough. Her uniform alone cost more than what her father made in a week. But Clive wanted his daughter to have a chance at a better future, so he made sure that she would keep on attending. So much so that he would neglect his own health and become ill. 

The fact that her father was a cleaner became well known within weeks of her being there. It was all thanks to Julia and her lackeys, but what could she do? Cora was the underdog. Not everyone at the Academy was as bad as them, as evidenced that Cora did not always have to sit alone at Lunch. But she did not have friends, per se. 

It was ironic then that she had been kidnapped with all the other children. Cora was nobody compared to them. After Nightwing found them in that forest, scared and cold, he had led them towards the first responders located not too far from the hiking trail. Her father was not there. The Academy had only contacted the parents of the wealthier children. It was not until several hours later, while at the hospital, that her father had finally shown up, scared out of his wits and looking as if he had seen a ghost. Cora had no injuries, but she had been shaken by the entire event, justifiably so. 

She did not sleep for days after that, too plagued by the nightmares. Unlike other peers who have been in her situation, she had not talked about it even when she returned to the Academy. Cora saw no reason to brag about it or keep alive the discussion around it, as some children have done. 

The counsellor that was assigned to her was friendly. Cora had trouble trusting most adults at the school, now, though. How easy had it been for those criminals to infiltrate and kidnap them? Scary. And then there was the matter of the girl she saw that night. Fay. She did not come back to school, and when Cora had asked around, nobody knew who she was. The dean refused to tell her on the basis that it was confidential. After all, not all students have returned to Gotham Academy after what happened. 

So, maybe that was the case with her. 

Or maybe not. 

Fay had been rather strange. She had looked incredibly nervous that night on Halloween, which is why Cora had approached her in the first place. She recognized awkward when she saw it. Fay came across as somewhat shy, which only egged Cora further on because generally, people just stared at her with disdain or indifference or lost their interest quickly. Not everyone, but still. Enough people. 

Then the woman showed, and everything after was a blur. Fay had not been with them in the cell, though, when Cora woke up. Not in the beginning. 

Maybe Fay was particularly important, then. Cora had been relieved to see her, though. The girl did not look as shaken as everyone else, nor did she start crying, but she was even quieter than before. Then Robin and the wolf showed up, and Cora lost track of her in the chaos that followed. They were forced back into the bunker, and she did not think much of where Fay was, given how terrifying the noises from above their heads were. She did not find Fay until later when Robin had told them to follow the wolf into the forest. 

Fay had looked wounded, exhausted. Cora had stuck to her because she didn't really know any of the other children. The tentative friends she had made at Gotham Academy were not present that night. They had not walked far, but it was cold, and it was dark, and they had been stripped to the bare minimum of clothing, likely so they could not hide any cell phones on them. Then the wolf, whose origin was still a mystery, had turned back and left them standing alone in that field. 

After Fay pointed to the sign showing the hiking trail on the other side, Cora lost track of her again in the agitated mass of children as they all started running towards it. In the darkness of the forest, it was even worse, but Cora did call out for her. No response. When Nightwing and Red Robin found them, Cora had found it difficult raising up as everyone rushed to them. But she did tell the authorities that someone was missing, except she did not have much detail to offer about Fay. A dark-haired girl, around her age, dressed in regular clothes. Not much to go on. 

Cora never saw her after. Nobody told her whether a girl named Fay was found, as everyone was too busy. But she had been reassured that all kidnapped children were rescued and were all safe and sound. 

She was not convinced, but alas, the weeks went by, and Fay remained a ghost. 

Until that day. 

The annual Christmas Market in the Dion Plaza was a tradition in her family. Cora and her father always attended, even if they did not always have money to spend on decorations or sweet treats. The skating rink set up in the middle was cheap, only five dollars for three hours. Her father always found a way of paying, and they would spend the day skating together. That year, he had not been able to join her. He was not well enough. Instead, he watched from the sides as she skated around for a couple of hours before they ventured through the stalls piled up with carefully handcrafted gifts, from wooden toys to candles, ceramics, and music boxes. The frosty breeze carried around the scent of cinnamon and fresh dough, as kiosks catered all kinds of European desserts such as crepes. Christmas carols were just loud enough to cover the chatter of the throngs of people moving about, from stall to stall, either for samples of food or to gaze at the objects on sale. 

Her father had stepped aside momentarily to take a phone call from work, and Cora had been left near a stall that finely crafted, hand-enamelled wooden figurines from Christmas folklore. Nutcrackers, Santa Clause, reindeers, the Yule lads, snowmen, the Grinch. She was looking at a figure of Rudolph when she spotted a familiar dark brunette on the other corner of the stand. 

Fay looked different. Almost unrecognizable, especially since she was smiling. Not widely so, but she did not look anxious or scared. Cora stared, wondering for a second if it was really her, but when the girl reached to scratch her nose, there was no doubt. She had done the exact gesture, several times, that night on Halloween. Fay was dressed expensively, just like the other girls at Gotham Academy, albeit nowhere as flashy. A navy dark coat with a maroon cashmere scarf that matched her beanie and fingerless gloves. 

Fay was not alone. A boy was standing next to her, looking neither friendly nor happy to be there. His frown made him stand out amongst the cheerful men and women around him. He was dressed in branded clothes as well, the collar of his dark jacket pulled high to his chin, but his head left uncovered, dark hair styled upwards while his sides were cut shorter. He did not attend Gotham Academy, but Cora recognized him all the same. People talked about him all the time at school, especially whenever they would be invited to participate in the exclusive parties his family organized. 

It was Damian Wayne. 

One of the stall owners handed Fay a relatively large bag. It looked heavy. Fay smiled politely at the man and nodded her head as she took it from his hands. That is when she noticed Cora staring. Fay looked confused initially, then her eyes widened in recognition. 

Cora awkwardly raised a hand. "Hey, Fay." She tried not to flinch when Damian's gaze fell on her because he looked at her as if she were one of Voldemorts' acolytes. Except instead of being terrified, he looked as if he wanted to hex her. Was Fay really friends with him? Cora heard that he is somewhat antisocial and rarely ever talked to other children whenever he did make a public appearance. Too much of a genius, some envious voices had said. Others, like Julia, saw him as 'misunderstood' and 'a dark prince'. Cora did not understand the appeal, although the rumours did not exaggerate his good looks. Then again, who wasn't super handsome in the Wayne family? They all won the genetic lottery, in addition to being super-duper rich. 

Cora approached them tentatively, keeping her gaze on Fay rather than the boy because at least the girl now looked as nervous as she felt too. "I am so happy you're okay!" Cora smiled brightly. "I didn't know what happened to you. I did not see you at all after the forest, and I thought maybe the wolf got you. How come you never came back to the Academy?" She chuckled nervously. "Sorry, maybe that's a personal question." 

"It is." Damian snarked. "Who are you?" 

Cora frowned at him. How rude. "My name is Cora Montgomery. And you are Damian Wayne." He did not look fazed. Just annoyed by her presence. Cute or not, he seemed just as arrogant as the other boys at school. She turned her eyes to Fay, who looked unsurprised by his behaviour. "I didn't mean to interrupt anything. I thought maybe…we could talk? If you wanted to." 

The boy opened his mouth, ready to answer instead of his companion, but Fay beat him to it, stepping forward. "I can't, right now. But---" She smiled a little. It was genuine. Kind, too. "I am glad you are okay as well, Cora." Cora did not give up that easily. Instead, she gave the girl her phone number and asked for Fay's in return. The dark-haired girl had shyly done so. 

Then the boy tugged her away with a gruff 'let's go', which Cora found rather annoying. Was he always mean like that? And if he was, why was Fay friends with him? They were obviously close if they were out there shopping together. Maybe…they were boyfriend and girlfriend? Oh wow. Cora was willing to bet the girls at the Academy would have a cow about it (not that she'd ever tell anyone). 

Fay stopped, however, releasing her hand from his grip and turned towards Cora a moment later. She rummaged through one of the bags before pulling out an object. It was wrapped up in paper, so Cora could not see what it was, but she accepted the package handed to her. The item inside was hard, likely made of wood and of separate parts put together. Easily double the length of her palm. 

The blond stared at it bewildered, then at the girl whose cheeks have turned slightly red. She was smiling, a bit wider than before. Her eyes were kind too, if only a bit sad. Her father had a smile like that also—not quite cheerful, but not miserable either. 

"Merry Christmas." Then bowed her head slightly just as she did with the shop owner before turning around on her feet to go after the boy. They both disappeared down the street amongst the shoppers. 

Cora unwrapped the package and saw that it was indeed a nutcracker. Beautifully handcrafted and painted in bright colours. Cora glanced at the kiosk and saw other nutcrackers that looked just like hers. They were at least fifty dollars; she would have never been able to afford one. Even if she did, it would have felt like a waste when they needed the money for more important things. If Fay was rich, then the cost would have hardly mattered to her. 

But she did not have to give it to Cora. 

That was a kind gesture. 

Cora decided she liked Fay. And hoped that was not the last time they saw each other.

.

.

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_ 25 _ _ th _ _ of December _

Christmas Eve had primarily been about them hunting down the Krampus-inspired killer that had already kidnapped and mutilated several victims. There was no actual mythological beast behind it all. Just a mad man whose family had been killed on Christmas eve, a year earlier by a crime gang calling themselves the Iron Heads. What a ridiculous name. Not as absurd as their outfits, though. Damian would not say he was sorry about any of their deaths, but Krampus, unlike Batman, was driven by vengeance. And, of course, his father was particularly unhappy about it all. 

Paul King, however, was craftier than one would have assumed for an accountant, and he also had a surprising number of resources. No wonder he has waited a year—King has been planning meticulously how he will take the Iron Heads down. They did catch him a few hours past midnight, right before he could kill the gang's leader and closest of his acolytes. He had every intention of dipping them in hot wax and leaving them to suffer until they died. 

He did not regret any of his actions, and he had been fully committed to blowing the building; they found him with himself inside. King saw suicide as a fitting ending after he has achieved his vendetta. Batman talked him out of it. Damian had not intervened, just watching, surprised as his father rationalized with the madman, pointing out that his family would have not wanted him to be in that position. Or to see him dead. He did have to pay for his actions, regardless of the Iron Heads being far worse criminals than him. 

There will always be people like them, especially in Gotham. 

King had blamed Batman. If the Dark Knight had done a better job, then perhaps his family would be alive. Damian did not often hear his father admit to his shortcomings. Especially not to a criminal. Not in the most obvious way, but he knew his father well enough to detect the undertones in his otherwise calm, deep voice. That night, Batman did not beat King to a pulp to bring him to justice. He had talked down the man into giving himself in. Gordon arrested him a few minutes later, along with the Iron Heads leader and his acolytes. 

"He'll be sentenced to life prison given his premeditated murders, but prisons in Gotham are overpopulated and underfunded. There is a chance he will either be released early or transferred to a prison, where he might escape." Damian remarked, interrupting the silence that permeated the car as they headed back to the Manor. "Comparatively, he would have died happier than he'll be in the future." 

Bruce did not say anything, his expression inscrutable underneath the cowl. "Do you think it would have been better to let him kill himself?" Damian did not really care either. He was interested in the logic behind his father's actions. "My point is that either way, he's screwed. But in prison, he will have to live with the death of his family. He could commit suicide there or go mad and kill others." 

"Or," Bruce started. "He will spend just enough time to reflect on his actions and turn his life around. If he wants to die, then he will find a way either way." It was not guaranteed time in prison will not turn him mad enough to go after other people if he ever escaped or was released. Damian understood what his father was trying to say, even if he did not fully agree with it. By letting King kill himself, it robbed him of the opportunity to change himself. Just as the man could turn out to be worse than he is now, there was also the chance of him turning better. 

He wondered if that's how warriors operated in Fay's world, as well. Most of them organized themselves in guilds, not unlike the way vigilantes in that world worked as part of a group with a common goal. Not unlike all those who choose to wear the Bat-signal. Damian made a mental note to ask her more about it. 

Christmas Day at the Wayne Manor could not have been passed as normal by any person's standard. Not given the people's background and jobs that attended for the late Lunch that Alfred had prepared. There were decorations too, all around the manor. A large, freshly cut pine tree was positioned in the main seating area, complete with presents under it. His father's attempt at making them behave like a family, he supposes. 

It was not…completely intolerable. Brown was annoying, but she was bearable compared to Drake, whom Damian could have quickly done without. Cassandra was not available to attend, which was a shame. Grayson was there, if only just for Lunch and the exchange of presents, as he had promised he would spend the afternoon with Starfire. Gordon had sent her presents but was otherwise spending her day with her family as well. Todd never showed. For the best, seeing as Damian was still annoyed about how he had approached Fay. Todd was a dangerous, unstable man, but the boy did not think he would harm Fay. 

"Hey, gremlin," Stephanie smiled cheerfully, leaning over the back of the armchair he was laying across, staring at his phone. He did not deign her with an answer, much less his attention. Earlier, he had committed the mistake of tasting her 'special' hot chocolate. It was abhorrent given how much cinnamon it had. 

Fay would have liked it, what with her equally ridiculous sweet tooth.

The blond tried to snatch his phone, but he moved it out of her way. Too slow, obviously. "Girl blunder." He sneered. "Don't you have somewhere to be? Maybe a serenade to this years' tree?" Last year, Brown had drunk a bit too much eggnog. Damian may or may have not poured some additional rum in it before stepping back and watching her make an idiot out of herself. It was rather entertaining. That year, she did not take the bait anymore. 

The monkey was learning. 

"Don't you?" She quipped, a shit-eating grin on her face, although the skin under her cheek twitched slightly at the reminder of last year's concert she put on. "Did you get anything nice for her?" 

Damian's eyes narrowed at her. "Why is it any of your business?" 

"So, you did, huh?" He was not going to play into the infantile games she was playing. With an unreadable look, he returned his attention to the phone. Or that had been the intention. Brown squeezed herself on the chair, pushing him aside. Her perfume, not entirely unpleasant, was tainted by the scent of cinnamon and alcohol. 

"Do you have a death wish?" He snarled. "Move." 

Stephanie smiled at him. "Can you just stop hissing like a cat for a moment and listen to the advice of an older, experienced woman?" 

"Fatter, as well." 

She rolled her eyes. "You better not call Fay fat. You realize how damaging that is to a girl's psyche?" Out of all the traumas Fay carried, he doubted being called fat was at the top of her priorities. Not that he did not mock her about it whenever she over-ate sugar. "I think we've already established you have brain damage." He snarked, shifting in the chair, elbowing her in the ribs. Harder than necessary. He would be damned if he would sit up---she was childish, but she would not chase him away from his spot. It was quieter on that end of the room. "Not much left to damage, for that matter." 

"Charming." She rolled her eyes. "Seriously, though, Damian. First Christmas in this world. It must be pretty overwhelming, but I am sure she would appreciate one even if she doesn't celebrate it." 

Damian did not really believe in the gift-giving custom of Christmas. Talia had put a different twist to it in the past, and it had nothing to do with generosity or religion. 

Alas, he did play his part in contributing to the presents underneath the tree. Even for Drake, if only because the prat had challenged him by pointing out he knew exactly what to get everyone. 

"If I say yes, will you go away?" 

"Can I get a hug?" She jutted her bottom lip out. 

"I can stab you if you would like." 

Stephanie stared at him with a severe look. Then she grappled herself onto him like a sloth. "I am glad you have a friend." She said in a hushed tone before pulling away quickly, rising to her feet. One second more, and he might have just stabbed her. 

Grayson finds him stewing in the chair, half-sneer still planted on his face. He handed Damian a dark violet box with a green bow sealing it. It was not for him—Grayson's present was in a navy bag under the tree. Damian already knew what it was inside. He knew what all the gifts had in them, for that matter, whether they were for him or not. 

"Kori has sent this." The older man said. "She knows well what it is like to be adjusting to life in a completely new world, so she thought Fay could use what's inside. I do, too, so I gave her a hand." 

"Hn." Damian knew Grayson would not have given it to him without considering whether it was appropriate or not. So, he accepted it. "I will let you know her feedback." 

The man put a hand on his shoulder, and Damian met his gaze. "I am sure Fay is glad she has someone to guide and support her. Kori had the Titans, but it was difficult at times, regardless of that." The former Robin smiled. There was an implicit offer of support in his words, and Damian recognized it. He was quietly thankful for the trust that was being put in him, however. 

Far easier than his father did. 

"Tell that to Drake. Not me." He said tightly. After all, Lunch ended on a sour note when he and Drake started arguing, and Bruce ended up snapping at them both. 

Drake started the fight, though. By insinuating he was holding Fay against her will. That she was some sort of pet, like Titus and Alfred the cat. If he thought Damian was not going to strike back at him, he was dead wrong. He could care less that it was not in 'Christmas spirit', although he should have used something else than Alfred's pie. Something sharper, maybe. 

Grayson sighed. "All he did was ask whether Fay is comfortable with her new arrangement." 

Damian's teeth gritted. "He was insinuating that she is there against her will. That---she has no choice." No choice but to tolerate him. Drake may not have said, but he might as well. He thought that Fay cooperated and accepted Damian's presence because she was afraid of him. That he was nothing more than the demon child, and she was his victim. Oh, how Drake was wrong on both accounts. 

He wished his father had defended him. Prove that he disagreed with Drake. 

"Do you think that?" Grayson asked. "Or that Fay believes that?"

"Don't be ridiculous." Damian scoffed. Fay was not there against her will. The girl could be a pushover, but she could be stubborn too. Defiant, even. And she is clearly capable of defending herself when the need arises, although she might not defeat him in an actual battle. Even if she considered herself a prisoner – she did not – that beast of hers would have never allowed him around if she felt miserable. The fact that he did only proved just how much progress Damian has made in gaining her – their – trust. Fay was not only more open or vocal with him. She looked at him differently, too. He wondered if any of that would change if she knew his full background---but telling her, he had killed hundreds of people had not made a difference so far. If anything, it has paved the way for discussions that he had estimated would take longer to instigate. 

"Good." The man said, removing his hand away from his shoulder. "She is doing much better, from what I've seen. More talkative. Looking healthier, for sure."  _ Sweet girl _ , Dick thought. Seemingly opposite to Damian, but perhaps not as much as any of them initially concluded. More fun, though. Not that he would tell Damian that, or he might risk a pie to the face too. And then Alfred might just kill them both. 

"Hn." Dick could tell Damian was pleased. Slightest bit proud, too. Fay was not a pet, but in a way, she was his challenge. Gaining her trust, helping her, guiding her. Not precisely as a mentor but still requiring interpersonal skills that the boy had not really mastered. He was terrific at acting, but Dick highly doubted that he was pretending when it came to the bond, he had formed with her, which meant all his – their – progress was genuine. He also knew that Tim regretted his words. That he did not believe them (mostly). Damian was protective, overly so which was only fuel to his temper and rivalry with Tim, but a wiser choice of words could have been employed. On both sides. 

"Tell her said I hi." Dick grinned. "And Merry Christmas, little D." Then he walked away, having already eyed the yule log that Alfred had left on the table. No reason why he could not get another piece – or three – before he left. 

.

Damian knew he would be off that night. The day after Christmas was generally quiet and after eleven days of continuous patrol, his father had already told him he will be benched that night. Damian was not exhausted, nor he was entirely pleased with the decision, but he had seen it coming. He did not bother to protest it, because it was a fruitless action and cooperating then meant he had some leverage the next time Bruce will want to put him off patrol.

Dressed and backpack on, Damian was on his way out when he crossed paths with his father on the stairs. They both stopped, regarding each other with equally impassive looks. "Where are you going?" Bruce asked, brow tilting lightly. "Alfred will be putting on a movie for us to watch." Yes, yes. Miracle on the 34 th street. They watched it last year too. Damian had not been impressed, but he would have stayed had it not been for how irritating he found Drake that night. His father too, for not having taken his side. 

"Out." He replied curtly. "Not interested." 

Then he moved to brush past the man, but a heavy, calloused hand stopped him. It was bigger than Graysons, but it did not reach out for him as often as the former Robin. Bruce opened his mouth, then closed it, looking mildly conflicted. I am proud of you. I am glad you are my son. Drake is wrong. He is not the better son. They were all suitable phrases he could have said but Damian knew better than to allow such wishful thinking to form in his head. 

What he did say, was close enough. Not as much as the boy would have wanted, but sufficient in that moment. 

"Alfred has made extra pies." Blue eyes met green. "Just in case. I told him to pack away one." The hand removed from his shoulder, leaving that spot unusually cold. 

A discreet stamp of approval. 

He will take it. 

"Merry Christmas, father." 

"Merry Christmas, Damian." 

.

Fay had let loose with shopping in those past couple weeks. Clothing, books, art supplies, all kinds of items that she had wished she could have bought before but did not have the means to do so. The Christmas Market, despite Damian's criticism that it was nowhere as good as the European ones, had turned her day into an extraordinarily good one. The crowds of people had made her slightly anxious, but she had been so engrossed in trying to visit every single stall that she had paid little attention to it. Bagheera had stayed in the car, as Damian mentioned he might attract too much attention. His theory that there is a chance someone from Halloween might recognize them has proven true when they came across Cora. Fay had been nervous about her presence there, even more so when the other girl started asking questions she could not answer or has not been prepared for. 

Why would Cora even want to spend time with her? They barely knew each other. 

But Fay was happy she was safe and sound. She was not sure what compelled her to give the girl a gift, but she thought it might be nice, seeing as it was a custom people engaged in there. Damian had thought it silly, as they were strangers, but he was more annoyed that she had not told him she interacted at length with another child at the Academy. Fay told him about how Cora had approached her that night, forcing her to come up with an excuse as to why she was there. She did not offer her last name though, and later at the compound, they barely saw each other. Later, Damian told her she need not worry about Cora – she was not - because he has done a background check on her. She was not a wealthy child, so in theory she should not have been kidnapped along with everyone else. Fay wondered if that is why the other children had seemed so mocking in her regard. 

Cora did text her a couple of days later with a 'Hey, Gryffindor.' and asking her if she would like to have a hot chocolate. Fay had said no, mentioning she will be going out of town with her family. Then she felt bad about it and suggested that maybe they can meet after New Year. Cora will surely give up by then, and even if she did not, Fay would find an excuse. It was not Cora's fault, she seemed nice enough, but Fay felt daunted at the prospect of her discovering the truth. She was not also particularly interested in socializing. Beyond those she already knew, of course. 

She did, however, finally understand what 'Gryffindor' was. Apparently, it was a reference to a series of books about a human boy who discovers he has magical powers, and travels to a magic world to attend school there. Fay bought the entire series. How could she not? It was rather ironic that she had worn the crest for the Gryffindor house, a symbol of courage and determination that night. Fay would still have avoided describing herself in either of those terms.

She did not decorate the warehouse for Christmas. At least not to the extent she has seen people there do it. Fay had managed to stop Damian from having a humongous tree delivered to the warehouse, purchasing instead a smaller one that was only slightly taller than herself. Artificial, too. They had decorated it together. She and Bag had filled it together with the baubles and hanging decorations after placing it in the seating area on the ground floor, setting many other purchases around it. To her they were more souvenirs than anything else, but Fay was particularly taken with how beautiful they are, as well as their religious or cultural meaning. The rest of the house was left largely void of decorations. 

There were several presents tucked beneath the tree. Dana, Robby, and Mack each gave her one, as did Gloria and Ben. Helen, whom Fay had only seen twice since Halloween and briefly so, had sent hers via Damian. Fay had given them gifts as well, but she had not been sure what to expect from the boy. She did not necessarily expect or want him to give her a gift. Damian had already given her so much, materially, or otherwise. So,  _ so _ much. 

Fay knew he tended to go over the top with, well, most things but she had not expected to see several different presents from him. She had not opened them yet, no matter how curious she has felt. Partly, because she had been embarrassed by his generosity and partly, because she wanted to wait for the 25 th , to be in line with the tradition. Damian had mentioned he would come by as well, so it was a good opportunity to offer him his present which she had kept hidden away for days now. Fay doubted he will like it or that it will be sufficient in comparison to his gifts, but it was, unfortunately, the best she could come up with. Had she been in Maysoon, she would have had far more options. 

"Rggg…?" Bagheera pushed one of the boxes with his paw. He had received presents as well, and Fay had caught him trying to peek inside several times in the past couple of days. 

"Be patient." She smiled. "It's tradition for people here to open it on the 25 th and I know it's generally in the morning, but let's wait on Damian." What a surreal thing to say. 

Speak of the devil, as people there said, and he shall appear. 

The intercom at the entrance beeped faintly as the security system was deactivated and the door unlocked. A moment later, the boy stepped through…. carrying more bags. Fay watched him curiously as he pushed the door open, then walked over to that end of the room and handed her the bags. A present from Dick, it seems and some of Alfred's cooking. Apple pie, fresh. Still warm. It made her smile. The pie went in the kitchen next to the other dishes that she bought, or Dana had given her. Dick's present was placed next to the others. 

"Well, what are you waiting for?" Damian said, sitting cross legged on the floor, near the tree after removing his jacket and boots. Fay hesitated, then told him to wait just a minute before rushing upstairs to the bedroom. Pulling the dark velvet box, she stared at it for a moment, heat rising to her cheeks and heart beating louder, as she wondered whether it was a mistake. Maybe he will think she was trying too hard. With a sigh, she rose to her feet and walked back to the living room, albeit at a much slower pace. 

Damian raised a brow when he saw her hold the package in her arms. She hesitated in handing it over to him, her face feeling as if it was on fire. 

"I thought I said I don't expect anything in return." He remarked, staring at the box in his lap. 

"I know." Fay released her breath. "But I wanted to." She had been working on his present ever since her birthday, without the expectation that she would receive something in return. "It's—it's not because of Christmas." She added, embarrassedly avoiding his gaze. Damian undid the bow she had put around it, then lifted the lid off before peeling away the paper she had used to wrap the item inside. The boy paused, before he lifted it up for inspection. 

He called them shuriken and told her it means 'hidden hand blade'. Her world had a version of it, but she did not have an equivalent term other than just generally refer to it as a weapon. Fay had gotten one from him for self-defence at the beginning of the month but after her birthday, she had started thinking about using it as inspiration for her gift. Fay had some knowledge of metalworking but not enough to allow her to forge a weapon on her own. However, Alfred has been very helpful after she told him what she intended to do and within a week or so she had a pentagon shaped star, slightly bigger than the one gave her. 

It was made of the melted broken parts of the blade Fay had carried with her for months. It was the  _ exard  _ that offered the shuriken its peculiar properties. The dark of the blade was unique, absorbing light rather than refracting it but it had an ethereal, turquoise sheen to it when held at the right angle. When thrown, the blade would look more like a shadow. One that carried a secret message in the inscriptions she carved in the blade. Fay had spent days working on them, ruining several practice blades in the process. The exard, once melted and reforged, offers a window of time in which it can be welded easier, with the use of the flux. It was a high jump from the basic exercises with the canvas to inscribing the exard, so it had not been a surprise that it took her days to get just one side inscribed accurately. Bagheera had helped in keeping the metal flexible but his flux is not made to be applied with precision, like a carver's knife so that solution had only gotten them so far. She was not entirely satisfied with the result although the shape and colours were as she had wanted them. Fay intended on applying more inscriptions to the blade, but it had not been possible, not with her current level of control and still-weak flux. 

So, she had settled for a simpler message, instead. 

It was meant to be symbolic, not necessarily something he could or should use in combat. In her world it would have been considered an honourable gift, if only too personal given the message on it, but those rules did not matter there. The more he stared at it in silence, scrutinizing it, the more she thought perhaps it had been a silly idea. That it would come across as desperate and pathetic, that she had put too much effort in it even though they are not officially friends. 

"You carved them." Damian remarked, his expression unreadable. "With your flux." 

Damian could see where she struggled with some of the symbols, where she pressed harder than in other places. It was meticulous work, however. The symbols curled and undulated and formed sharp angles, not unlike the ones that had been on the inside of her bracelets. Must be the same language though. He moved the shuriken from hand to hand. It was almost perfectly balanced, the weight of two of the blades ever so slightly heavier than the others. Milligrams at most. He would not have been able to tell had he not been handling weapons such as that since he was four. 

Fay had created it, from scratch, however. For him. She has been improving in using her flux. Just the other day, he had given her a more complex drawing of the Gotham skyline and challenged her to paint it by mimicking the same colours in the original version he has made. The progress was steady, even if non-linear as there were days when she struggled with even the most basic of movements. That usually happened when she was in a low mood. But for her to inscribe such intricate patterns onto the blade would have required considerable effort---she had kept it a secret, too. Must have worked on it when he was not at the warehouse. It was light but even though the metal was unknown to him, he could tell it was durable. 

"What is their meaning?" 

Her face was red as a tomato. "Um, it's a sort of…message. Given to warriors traditionally to—to wish them protection and good fortune. Like, um…like a blessing." She reached to scratch at her cheek, looking self-conscious. "For safety." She mumbled. "Not---not that I think you need it." She shrugged, looking anywhere but at him. "It’s something…. people do in my world.’’ 

“What is it made of?’’ 

“Exard.’’ Fay blinked, eyes zeroing on a blade. “It’s a very light, very tough metallic substance that can be melted, just like gold. But um, it stays flexible for a few days after---by using the flux and water. Um, Mr. Pennyworth helped me.’’ At that he looked up at her. “To melt down a blade I had made of exard. It was broken, I cannot remember how---I think it must have happened before I travelled here. I kept it, um because I thought if anyone finds out, will realize it is not a metal from this world and it, um…. might cause issues.’’ 

Damian looked back at the shuriken, pushing away the warmth forming in his chest because he knew the paladin will detect it. Bagheera did not seem interested in telling Fay most times what he felt, but the boy hated how he had access to his emotions as if they were an open book. Not unlike Raven, for that matter. 

“You could have significantly jeopardized your recovery.’’ He found himself saying, even as the skin around his collar felt warmer than usual. Damian was not sure what to say. He had received weapons before, but none of them---none of them were with such an intentional message behind it. Fay wanted him to be safe, regardless of if he did not need it and for her to go to such lengths to carve that blade….it was personal. It did not matter if the blade was perfectly balanced or not. It was…. there was an uncomfortable emotion sitting in his chest, that he did not want to name but could not doubt. 

“What?’’ She was hurt. He could tell. That he had not reacted in any manner other than to tell her that it had been a reckless action on her. It was the truth. 

But. 

That is exactly what made that gift different than the others. Fay must have put gruelling work in such a thing just so she could…. why? 

“Why?’’ He said, ignoring her previous question. “Why would you---’’ Deal with nosebleeds and migraines and aching marks, which he was positive she must have had. “—give me this? You said it was not because of Christmas.’’ It could not be just a blessing. That was the message, but not what drove her to spend weeks working on it in secret. Damian made a mental note to ask Pennyworth when exactly she approached him.

“I---well, I had nothing else to give…to give you.’’ Fay looked guilty. “…and, um, I thought you deserved something. For everything—you have done for me I guess.’’ 

“You don’t owe me anything.’’ He did not mean to snap. Damian felt on guard and he was not sure why. 

Fay looked at him, with a mix of confusion and hurt. “It’s not---about owing. It is about…acknowledging what a person does for another person.’’ She glanced at the blade. “I am sorry if I’ve offended you. You—you do not have to accept it.’’ She reached to take it away from him, but he moved it out of her reach. He felt a pang of regret when he noticed that her eyes looked wetter than before. 

“I never said I am not accepting it.’’ He breathed. She leaned back on her knees, avoiding his gaze again. Damian met the paladin’s gaze who in return gave him a scathing look. Fay was definitely upset. But he did not need Bagheera’s abilities to know that. Damian clicked his teeth. “I want you to answer me something. Honestly.’’ Fay looked at him. “The night of Halloween. Before you delivered the final blow to the chimeras’, what was the reason for thanking me?’’ Her eyes widened, and judging by the mortified expression, Fay must have remembered that moment as well. Or perhaps, it had been the heat of the battle, after all. Either way, he needed to know. 

“It’s…um, I.’’ she scratched at her cheek and nose again. “…I don’t know— ‘’ 

“Fay.’’ Damian cut her off. “Don’t lie to me.’’ 

Fay looked uncomfortable, and she instinctively eyed the open space past the sofa where the stairs were. 

“…To become a warrior….um, officially, a person must pass a series of trials.’’ She said, after a moment, keeping her gaze downcast. Her expression had darkened slightly. “There’s…different ones. Different…stages. They become more difficult each year and um, then at---at my age, there is an important one. There are all kinds of---training and um, false missions. Some---are real, too. It depends on whether---a group is talented enough, since we are…. we placed in a team. Not always---’’ She scratched at her head. “---it’s complicated, but um, I was placed in a team. And…we had missions, together. Even if they were not…real, they, um, they were meant to mimic the danger of one. I---’’ She sighed. “I struggled with some of them. Because of the panic attacks. Because I failed….so did the other children.’’ 

Damian’s brows furrowed but he kept silent. Fay pulled away slightly, to lean against the sofa and pull her knees up. 

“I did not get better. The healers tried. And um, my masters tried. I---I never passed my trials. It is not that…uncommon, but—’’ It was not acceptable for her to fail. “—because of who my parents are---were---it wasn’t really….’’ 

“Acceptable.’’ He supplied. 

Fay nodded. “…I wasn’t interested in becoming one. A warrior. I mean---I do not even know. I thought it made sense…It seemed like the only thing that made sense.’’ She bit onto her lip, pausing briefly. “…. I understand what my parents fought…and um, died for. I understand and…I even agree with it. Or with most of it. But---But I just could not do it.’’ She fidgeted with the sleeves of her jumper. “…but I think I do now. It kind of feels…. like I forgot about it. But that----night, I think I remembered. Not…not all the way, but it was the first time---my fear did not feel stronger than my will. I was angry, and I do not want to rely on anger to be able to fight…. but that night, I do not know.’’ She shook her head. “Honestly, I don’t know how to---how to describe it. I just…’’ Her voice trailed off, then she tilted her head slightly to the side. 

“I was just tired of not being able to fight.’’ She admitted, finally. Realizing she has not answered his question, she took a deep breath and smiled slightly, despite feeling exposed. 

“I thanked you because….’’ Damian held his breath. Fay’s smile widened, as she looked up at him, tears falling down her cheeks. “You made me want to be brave. And fight, too. I was angry---for a lot of reasons, I guess. But I wanted to fight, too. At all costs. Just like you were. Just----just like my parents did.’’ He stared at her, feeling light-headed as he ran over her words in his mind. Fad had fought the way she did…. because of him? Because she felt inspired by him? 

There was a part of him that considered it obvious. Of course, she would be inspired by someone like him. He was Damian Wayne, the former Prince of the League of Assassins, the future Dark Knight. He has had followers bow before him and praise skill since he was at a young age, and it was because of his title as much as it had been because he had earned it. But. Fay was not praising his versatility in how to kill a man. She was not acknowledging his ruthlessness or intellect, nor was she in awe of his lineage. Fay was not presuming to be as strong or capable as him, nor was she a full-fledged warrior as she has admitted to having failed to have proven herself. Fay had watched him bleed for her and decided that she would stand up and do the same for him. Even after, according to her own words, she has been consistently failing to do so for months. He had succeeded in inspiring her where her family and healers and tutors have failed. By doing something that Damian Al Ghul would have never done. By behaving in a way Talia would have disapproved. By wanting to protect her, Fay found her own strength which he had already told her she was in possession of, albeit channelled erroneously. But he had not known it had been him who had instigated it on that occasion. 

Fay wanted to be brave because of him. 

Nobody has ever said that to him. Not as Damian Wayne, not-the-weapon-Mother-made. 

Damian looked down at the blade, his throat feeling tighter than usual. He pulled himself to stand beside her, shoulder to shoulder. “…I accept your gift.’’ He murmured. “And I am honoured by it.’’ 

“It’s—’’ She sniffed, reaching to wipe her cheeks. “—not balanced, properly.’’ 

“I know.’’ He nodded. “But…it does not matter.’’ 

They stayed like that a few minutes, before he decided to hand her the gift he had for her. It felt inadequate. Fay being Fay, however, had stared it with unwarranted admiration and awe. 

It was the newest initiative launched by Gotham Museums, in line with the vision he has told her about all those months ago. An A4 hardcover book, simple with black covers and the simple title written in gold. Below, a hand-drawn sketch of the Arts Museum that Damian had created himself. Inside, the glossy pages filled with photos of the various items on display around the museum and offering a complimentary simplified map at the back of it, was full of different random facts about the building and its contents. When was the building made, how many exhibits it hosted, what were its most unique items, the history and background of certain specific art pieces. Amongst those nuggets of information, there were also stories. 

The stories that she had gathered from various Gothamites weeks earlier and had presented him with. 

_ Why Gotham Museum? _

“Oh…’’ Fay gaped slightly at it, as she rifled through the pages and her eyes widened further when she recognized what was written inside. Most of the information in the book was based on her own work and feedback. “…wait. All those people I interviewed— ’’

“I tracked them down and asked for their approval to publish the information, either anonymously or using their initials. See?’’ He tapped at the end of the story on the page she was looking at. Only the initials appeared. 

Fay turned to stare at him. “You…tracked them down? And…. they just agreed?’’ 

“Yes.’’ And if they did not initially, offering them a check had certainly addressed their reluctance. 

Fay smiled widely and turned her attention back to the book. “This is…incredible. Wait…. it is going to be public. As in---as in sold in at the museum?’’ Damian nodded. “Look at the back.’’ She did, then gasped when she saw the names that were put down as its authors. D.W…and F.K. “You---You can’t be serious.’’ She stammered. “Isn’t---isn’t that dangerous?’’ 

He scoffed. “Do you have any idea how many F.K.s are out there? Plus, it was put down as a pseudonym. Nobody will be able to track it down back to you.’’ He looked at her from the corner of his mind. “I have put my name down. However, the reception received for the book would not have been as positive had it not been for those accounts. You’ve…done well.’’ 

Fay shook her head. “I don’t mind. Your…name deserves to be on there, as well. I did not know many of the things that are in here…until you told me.’’ She looked at him, smiling brightly again, pulling the book tight against her chest. “This is…amazing. Tha--thank you, Damian.’’ 

_ You are welcome.  _ “Hn.’’ He looked away, glancing at the presents underneath the trees. Particularly the one from Grayson. “Open the rest.’’ 

Dana had given her two book sets, one containing the books of  _ Roald Dahl _ ’s and the other  _ J.R.R Tolkien’s. _ There was also a patchwork quilt that Dana had sewn herself, inscribing her name ‘Fay’ at one corner. Robby had given her comic books and posters. Mack had given her an annual paid membership to the cinema, along with a children’s watch. Red. Gloria has given her a unicorn-themed bath set and a Monopoly board game, whereas Ben had carved her an intricately wooden box that opened in four different compartments. The floral carving and winter elements were beautiful, as was the silhouette of a wolf pyrographed on the lid. 

“Oh. Bag— ’’ Fay tilted the box towards her paladin. “That’s you!’’ Bagheera looked at it curiously, before huffing in satisfaction. Helen had given her toys and board games and coloured pencils and a silver necklace whose beads she could personalize. Fay’s favourite item in the pile was, however, the large brown teddy-bear equipped with a pre-recorded message from Helen and her family. The recording told her the Wilmot family will always be thankful for her kindness and wished her a Merry Christmas. Fay was not sure when it was the last time that she smiled for so long that her cheeks were hurting. Or perhaps, she was not used to it anymore. Damian pushed Grayson’s gift towards her, last. Inside she had found a ‘A guide to idioms’, along with a dozen or so DVD’s. She found them both delightful, but the idiom guide was particularly useful as she did struggle with many expressions that people used around her, even with the amount of reading she was doing. 

Fay, herself, had bought Bagheera expensive meat with Damian’s help because it was the most fitting present she could think of. That, and sharing Alfred’s pie with him after she and Damian each took a piece. In the end, they watched one of the movies that Grayson had slipped inside. Damian knew he had done it on purpose, but he did not tell Fay. 

It was the 1947 version of  _ Miracle on 34 _ _ th _ _ Street _ . 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next update won't be until another week from now on. 
> 
> Enjoy!


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